^^  THE  NOVELS 
TALES  S.  SKETCHES 
t)F  J  M  BARRIE  ^ 


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J.  M.  BARRIE 


Vol.  II 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE 


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THE  NOVELS, TALES 
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Drawn  hy  J.  Benusrd  Partridgs, 


THE  NOVELS, TALES 
AND  SKETCHES  OF 
J.  M.  BARRIE  "Sb  "*  '^ 


WHEN  A  MAN'S 
SINGLE:  A  TALE 
OF  LITERARY  LIFE  «  $  * 

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SE  PUBLISHED  IN 
NEW  YORK   BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S 
SONS      ^      ^       1917      ^ 


492':^6 


author's  edition 


l^yU  ♦  ^/*w»<-4 


Copyright,  1896,  by  Cnaklbs  Scrikhek'i  Sons. 


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PR 


TO 

W.  ROBERTSON   NICOLL,  M.  A. 


INTRODUCTION* 

"TT  THEN  a  Man's  Single  "  was  first  published 
VV  from  week  to  week  in  the  British  Weekly ; 
it  began  to  appear  there  before  more  than  two 
chapters  of  it  were  written ;  soon  I  was  only  one 
chapter  ahead,  and  after  that,  I  think,  I  never  in- 
creased the  distance  between  us  though  I  could 
feel  its  breath  on  my  neck.  This  perhaps  accounts 
for  the  curiously  inappropriate  title;  until  he  was 
married  (from  which  point  I  cannot  answer  for 
him)  Rob  Angus  never  "  lived  at  his  ease."  I  ex- 
pect that  when  I  started  Rob  I  meant  him  to  have 
a  less  strenuous  time,  but  he  fell  in  love,  and  once 
they  fall  in  love  there  is  no  saying  what  your 
heroes  will  do.  By  that  time  the  book  was  chris- 
tened and  had  got  used  to  its  name. 

Titles,  however,  are  a  small  matter;  the  chief 
objection  to  this  form  of  publication  is  that  it  pre- 
vents the  spontaneous  development  of  your  tale. 
There  are  writers  who  can  plan  out  their  story 
beforehand  as  clearly  as  though  it  were  a  railway 
journey,  and  adhere  throughout  to  their  original 
design  —  they  draw  up  what  playwrights  call   a 

♦Copyright,  1896,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
Written  for  the  fust  collected  uniform  editioa. 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 

scenario  —  but  I  was  never  one  ot  those.  I  spend  a 
great  deal  ot"  time  indeed  in  looking  for  the  best 
road  in  the  map  and  mark  it  with  red  ink,  but  at 
the  first  bypath  off  my  characters  go.  "•  Come  back," 
I  cry,  "  you  are  off  the  road."  '*  We  prefer  this 
way,"  they  reply.  I  try  bullying.  "  You  are  only 
people  in  a  book,"  I  shout,  "  and  it  is  my  book, 
and  I  can  do  what  I  like  with  you,  so  come  back  I  " 
But  they  seldom  come,  and  it  ends  with  my 
plodding  after  them.  Unless  I  am  the  one  to 
yield,  they  and  I  do  not  become  good  friends, 
which  is  fatal  to  the  book,  but,  if  they  do  some- 
thing not  in  the  plan,  it  often  necessitates  altera- 
tions in  the  preceding  chapters,  and  such  alterations 
cannot  be  made  when  these  chapters  are  already 
in  print.  Thus,  oftener  than  was  wise,  I  dragged 
Rob  Angus  and  his  friends  back  to  the  main  road, 
and  when  I  let  them  stray  it  was  at  a  cost.  These 
are  some  reasons  why  the  book  is  so  disjointed.  It 
is  a  method  of  publication  I  hope  never  to  adopt 
again. 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I  ROB  ANGUS  IS  NOT  A  FREE  MAN.     .       i 

II     ROB  BECOMES  FREE 20 

III  ROB  GOES  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD  .     32 

IV  "THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS"      ....     51 
V  ROB  MARCHES  TO  HIS  FATE.     ...     73 

VI     THE  ONE  WOMAN 95 

VII     THE  GRAND  PASSION  ? 118 

VIII     IN  FLEET   STREET 134 

IX     MR.  NOBLE  SIMMS 153 

X     THE  WIGWAM .   165 

XI     ROB  IS  STRUCK  DOWN 185 

XII     THE  STUPID  SEX 200 

XIII  THE  HOUSEBOAT,  Tawny  Owl    .     .     .     .216 

XIV  MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART    .     .     .230 
XV  COLONEL  ABINGER  TAKES  COMMAND  247 

XVI  THE  BARBER  OF  ROTTEN  ROW      .     .  261 

XVII  ROB  PULLS  HIMSELF  TOGETHER    .     .  275 

XVIII  THE  AUDACITY  OF  ROB  ANGUS      .     .  288 

XIX  THE  VERDICT  OF  THRUMS     ....  299 


T\^EN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE 


WHEN    A   MAN'S    SINGLE 

CHAPTER   I 

ROB   ANGUS    IS    NOT   A    FREE   MAN 

ONE  Still  Saturday  afternoon  some  years  ago  a 
child  pulled  herself  through  a  small  window 
into  a  kitchen  in  the  kirk-wynd  of  Thrums.  She 
came  from  the  old  graveyard,  whose  only  outlet, 
when  the  parish  church  gate  is  locked,  is  the  win- 
dows of  the  wynd  houses  that  hoop  it  round.  Squat- 
ting on  a  three-legged  stool  she  gazed  wistfully  at 
a  letter  on  the  chimney-piece,  and  then,  tripping  to 
the  door,  looked  up  and  down  the  wynd. 

Snecky  Hobart,  the  bellman,  hobbled  past,  and, 
though  Davy  was  only  four  years  old,  she  knew 
that  as  he  had  put  on  his  blue  top-coat  he  expected 
the  evening  to  be  fine.  Tammas  McOuhatty,  the 
farmer  of  T'nowhead,  met  him  at  the  corner,  and 
they  came  to  a  standstill  to  say,  "  She's  hard, 
Sneck,"  and  "She  is  so,  T'nowhead,"  referring  to 

1 


WHEN   A   MAN  S   SINGLE 

the  weather.  Observing  that  they  had  stopped 
they  moved  on  again. 

Women  and  children  and  a  few  men  squeezed 
through  their  windows  into  the  kirk-yard,  the 
women  to  knit  stockings  on  fallen  tombstones,  and 
the  men  to  dander  pleasantly  from  grave  to  grave 
reading  the  inscriptions.  All  the  men  were  well 
up  in  years,  for  though,  with  the  Auld  Lichts,  the 
Sabbath  began  to  come  on  at  six  o'clock  on  Satur- 
day evening,  the  young  men  were  now  washing 
themselves  cautiously  in  tin  basins  before  going 
into  the  square  to  talk  about  women. 

The  clatter  of  more  than  one  loom  could  still 
have  been  heard  by  Davy  had  not  her  ears  been 
too  accustomed  to  die  sound  to  notice  it.  In  the 
adjoining  house  Bell  Mealmaker  was  peppering 
her  newly-washed  floor  with  sand,  while  her  lodger, 
Hender  Robb,  with  a  rusty  razor  in  his  hand, 
looked  for  his  chin  in  a  tiny  glass  that  was  peeling 
on  the  wall.  Jinny  Tosh  had  got  her  husband, 
Aundra  Lunan,  who  always  spoke  of  her  as  She, 
ready,  so  to  speak,  for  church  eighteen  hours  too 
soon,  and  Aundra  sat  stiffly  at  the  fire,  putting  his 
feet  on  the  ribs  every  minute,  to  draw  them  back 
with  a  scared  look  at  Her  as  he  remembered  that 
he  had  on  his  blacks.  In  a  bandbox  beneath  the 
bed  was  his  silk  hat,  which  had  been  knocked  down 
to  him  at  Jamie  Ramsay's  roup,  and  Jinny  had 
already  put  his  red  handkerchief,  which  was  also  a 

2 


ROB  ANGUS   IS   NOT   A   FREE   MAN 

pictorial  history  of  Scotland,  into  a  pocket  of  his 
coat-tails,  with  a  corner  hanging  gracefully  out. 
Her  puckered  lips  signified  that,  however  much 
her  man  might  desire  to  do  so,  he  was  not  to  carry 
his  handkerchief  to  church  in  his  hat,  where  no  one 
could  see  it.  On  working  days  Aundra  held  his 
own,  but  at  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  nights  he 
passed  into  Her  hands. 

Across  the  wynd,  in  which  a  few  hens  wandered, 
Pete  Todd  was  supping  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  His 
blacks  lay  ready  for  him  in  the  coffin-bed,  and 
Pete,  glancing  at  them  at  intervals,  supped  as 
slowly  as  he  could.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  saucer, 
and  in  the  other  a  chunk  of  bread,  and  they  were 
as  far  apart  as  Pete's  outstretched  arms  could  put 
them.  His  chair  was  a  yard  from  the  table,  on 
which,  by  careful  balancing,  he  rested  a  shoeless 
foot,  and  his  face  was  twisted  to  the  side.  Every 
time  Easie  Whamond,  his  wife,  passed  him  she 
took  the  saucer  from  his  hand,  remarking  that 
when  a  genteel  man  sat  down  to  tea  he  did  not 
turn  his  back  on  the  table.  Pete  took  this  stolidly, 
like  one  who  had  long  given  up  trying  to  under- 
stand the  tantrums  of  women,  and  who  felt  that,  as 
a  lord  of  creation,  he  could  afford  to  let  it  pass. 

Davy  sat  on  her  three-legged  stool  keeping 
guard  over  her  uncle  Rob  the  saw-miller's  letter, 
and  longing  for  him  to  come.  She  screwed  up  her 
eyebrows  as  she  had  seen  him  do  when  he  read  a 

3 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

letter,  and  she  felt  that  it  would  be  nice  if  every 
one  would  come  and  look  at  her  taking  care  of  it. 
After  a  time  she  climbed  up  on  her  stool  and 
stretched  her  dimpled  arms  toward  the  mantel- 
piece. From  a  string  suspended  across  this,  socks 
and  stockings  hung  drying  at  the  fire,  and  clutch- 
ing one  of  them  Davy  drew  herself  nearer.  With 
a  chuckle,  quickly  suppressed,  lest  it  should  bring 
in  Kitty  Wilkie,  who  ought  to  have  been  watch- 
ing her  instead  of  wandering  down  the  wynd  to 
see  who  was  to  have  salt  fish  for  supper,  the  child 
clutched  the  letter  triumphantly,  and,  toddling  to 
the  door,  slipped  out  of  the  house. 

For  a  moment  Davy  faltered  at  the  mouth  of 
the  wynd.  There  was  no  one  there  to  whom  she 
could  show  the  letter.  A  bright  thought  entered 
her  head,  and  immediately  a  dimple  opened  on 
her  face  and  swallowed  all  the  puckers.  Rob  had 
gone  to  the  Whunny  muir  for  wood,  and  she 
would  take  the  letter  to  him.  Then  when  Rob 
saw  her  he  would  look  all  around  him,  and  if  there 
was  no  one  there  to  take  note  he  would  lift  her  to 
his  shoulder,  when  they  could  read  the  letter  to- 
gether. 

Davy  ran  out  of  the  wynd  into  the  square,  think- 
ing she  heard  Kitty's  Sabbath  voice,  which  re- 
minded the  child  of  the  little  squeaking  saw  that 
Rob  used  for  soft  wood.  On  week-days  Kitty's 
voice  was  the  big  saw  that  puled  and  rasped,  and 

4 


ROB   ANGUS    IS   NOT   A   FREE   MAN 

Mag  Wilkie  shivered  at  it.  Except  to  her  hus- 
band Mag  spoke  with  her  teeth  closed,  so  politely 
that  no  one  knew  what  she  said. 

Davy  stumbled  up  the  steep  brae  down  which 
men  are  blown  in  winter  to  their  work,  until  she 
reached  the  rim  of  the  hollow  in  which  Thrums 
lies.  Here  the  road  stops  short,  as  if  frightened  to 
cross  the  common  of  whin  that  bars  the  way  to 
the  north.  On  this  common  there  are  many  cart- 
tracks  over  bumpy  sward  and  slippery  roots,  that 
might  be  the  ribs  of  the  earth  showing,  and  Davy, 
with  a  dazed  look  in  her  eyes,  ran  down  one  of 
them,  the  whins  catching  her  frock  to  stop  her, 
and  then  letting  go,  as  if,  after  all,  one  child  more 
or  less  in  the  world  was  nothing  to  them. 

By  and  by  she  found  herself  on  another  road, 
along  which  Rob  had  trudged  earlier  in  the  day 
with  a  saw  on  his  shoulder,  but  he  had  gone  east, 
and  the  child's  face  was  turned  westward.  It  is  a 
muddy  road  even  in  summer,  and  those  who  use  it 
frequently  get  into  the  habit  of  lifting  their  legs 
high  as  they  walk,  like  men  picking  their  way 
through  beds  of  rotting  leaves.  The  light  had 
faded  from  her  baby  face  now,  but  her  mouth  was 
firm-set,  and  her  bewildered  eyes  were  fixed  straight 
ahead. 

The  last  person  to  see  Davy  was  Tammas 
Haggart,  who,  with  his  waistcoat  buttoned  over 
his  jacket,  and  garters  of  yarn  round  his  trousers, 

5 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

was  slowly  breaking  stones,  though  the  road  swal- 
lowed them  quicker  than  he  could  {ggA  it.  Tam- 
mas  heard  the  child  approaching,  for  his  hearing 
had  become  very  acute,  owing  to  his  practice  when 
at  home  of  listening  through  the  floor  to  what  the 
folks  below  were  saying,  and  of  sometimes  joining 
in.  He  leant  on  his  hammer  and  watched  her 
trot  past. 

The  strength  went  gradually  from  Tammas's  old 
arms,  and  again  resting  on  his  hammer  he  removed 
his  spectacles  and  wiped  them  on  his  waistcoat. 
He  took  a  comprehensive  glance  around  at  the 
fields,  as  if  he  now  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
them  for  the  first  time  during  his  sixty  years'  pil- 
grimage in  these  parts,  and  his  eyes  wandered 
aimlessly  from  the  sombre  firs  and  laughing  beeches 
to  the  white  farms  that  dot  the  strath.  In  the  fore- 
ground two  lazy  colts  surveyed  him  critically 
across  a  dyke.  To  the  north  the  frowning  Whunny 
hill  had  a  white  scarf  round  its  neck. 

Something  troubled  Tammas.  It  was  the  vision 
of  a  child  in  a  draggled  pinafore,  and  stepping  into 
the  middle  of  the  road  he  looked  down  it  in  the 
direction  in  which  Davy  had  passed. 

"  Chirsty  Angus's  lassieky,"  he  murmured. 

Tammas  sat  down  cautiously  on  the  dyke  and 
untied  the  red  handkerchief  that  contained  the 
remnants  of  his  dinner.  When  he  had  smacked 
his  lips  over  his  flagon  of  cold  kail,  and  seen  the 

6 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT   A   FREE   MAN 

last  of  his  crumbling  oatmeal  and  cheese,  his  un« 
easiness  returned,  and  he  again  looked  down  the 
road. 

"  I  maun  turn  the  bairn,"  was  his  reflection. 

It  was  now,  however,  half  an  hour  since  Davy 
had  passed  Tammas  Haggart's  cairn. 

To  Haggart,  pondering  between  the  strokes  of 
his  hammer,  came  a  mole-catcher,  who  climbed  the 
dyke  and  sat  down  beside  him. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  new-comer;  to  which  Tam- 
mas replied  abstractedly  — 

"  Jamie." 

"  Hae  ye  seen  Davy  Dundas  ?  "  the  stone-breaker 
asked,  after  the  pause  that  followed  this  conversa- 
tion. 

The  mole-catcher  stared  heavily  at  his  cordu- 
roys. 

"  I  dinna  ken  him,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  but  I  hae 
seen  naebody  this  twa  'oors." 

"  It's  no  a  him,  it's  a  her.  Ye  canna  hae  been  a 
winter  here  without  kennin'  Rob  Angus." 

"  Ay,  the  saw-miller.  He  was  i'  the  wud  the 
day.  I  saw  his  cart  gae  hame.  Ou,  in  coorse  I 
ken  Rob.     He's  an  amazin'  crittur." 

Tammas  broke  another  stone  as  carefully  as  if 
it  were  a  nut. 

"  I  dinna  deny,"  he  said,  "  but  what  Rob's  a 
curiosity.     So  was  his  faither  afore  'im." 

"  I've  heard  auld  Rob  was  a  queer  body,"  said 

7 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Jamie,  adding  incredulously,  "  they  say  he  shaved 
twice  i'  the  week  an'  wore  a  clean  dicky  ilka  day." 

"  No  what  ye  wad  say  ilka  day,  but  oftener  than 
was  called  for.  Kob  wasna  naturally  ostentatious ; 
na,  it  was  the  wife  'at  insistit  on't.  Nanny  was  a 
terrible  tid  for  cleanness.  Ay,  an'  it's  a  guid  thing 
in  moderation,  but  she  juist  overdid  it;  yes,  she 
overdid  it.  Man,  it  had  sic  a  baud  on  her  'at  even 
on  lier  deathbed  they  had  to  bring  a  basin  to  her  to 
wash  her  hands  in." 

"  Ay,  ay  V  When  there  was  sic  a  pride  in  her  I 
wonder  she  didna  hit  young  Rob  to  the  college, 
an*  him  sae  keen  on't." 

"  Ou,  he  was  gaen,  but  ye  see  auld  Rob  got  gey 
dottle  after  Nanny's  death,  an'  so  young  Rob  stuck 
to  the  saw-mill.  It's  curious  hoo  a  body  misses 
his  wife  when  she's  gone.  Ay,  it's  like  the  clock 
stoppin'." 

"  Weel,  Rob's  no  gettin*  to  the  college  hasna 
made  'im  humble." 

"Ye  dinna  like  Rob?" 

"  Hoo  did  ye  find  that  oot  ?  "  asked  Jamie,  a 
little  taken  aback.  "  Man,  Tammas,"  he  added, 
admiringly,  "  ye're  michty  quick  i'  the  uptak." 

Tammas  handed  his  snuff-mull  to  the  mole- 
catcher,  and  then  helped  himself 

"  I  daursay,  I  daursay,"  he  said,  thoughtfully. 

"I've  naethi  ng  to  say  agin  the  saw-miller,"  con- 
tinued Jamie,  after  thinking  it  out,  "  but  there's 

8 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT   A   FREE   MAN 

something  in's  face  'at's  no  sociable.     He  looks  as 
if  he  was  takkin'  ye  atf  in's  inside." 

"Ay,  auld  Rob  was  a  sarcestic  stock  too.  It 
rins  i'  the  blood." 

"  I  prefer  a  mair  common  kind  o'  man,  bein'  o' 
the  common  kind  mysel'." 

"  Ay,  there's  naething  sarcestic  about  you, 
Jamie,"  admitted  the  stone-breaker. 

"  I'm  an  ord'nar  man,  Tammas." 

"  Ye  are,  Jamie,  ye  are." 

"  Maybe  no  sae  oncommon  ord'nar  either." 

"  Midlin'  ord'nar,  midlin'  ord'nar." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  ye're  braw  an'  sarcestic  yersel, 
Tammas  *? " 

"  I'd  aye  that  repootation,  Jeames.  Am  no  an 
everyday  sarcesticist,  but  juist  noos  an'  nans. 
There  was  ae  time  I  was  speakin'  tae  Easie 
Webster,  an'  I  said  a  terrible  sarcestic  thing.  Ay, 
I  dinna  mind  what  it  was,  but  it  was  michty  sar- 
cestic." 

"  It's  a  gift,"  said  the  mole-catcher. 

"  A  gift  it  is,"  said  Tammas. 

The  stone-breaker  took  his  flagon  to  a  spring 
near  at  hand,  and  rinsed  it  out.  Several  times 
while  pulling  it  up  and  down  the  little  pool  an 
uneasy  expression  crossed  his  face  as  he  remem- 
bered something  about  a  child,  but  in  washing  his 
hands,  using  sand  for  soap,  Davy  slipped  his 
memory,  and  he  returned  cheerfully  to  the  cairn. 

9 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Here  Jamie  was  wagging  his  head  from  side  to 
side  Hke  a  man  who  had  caught  himself  thinking. 

"  I'll  warrant,  Tammas,"  he  said,  "  ye  cudna  tell's 
what  set's  on  to  speak  aboot  Rob  Angus  ?  " 

"Na,  it's  a  thing  as  has  often  puzzled  me  hoo 
we  select  wan  topic  mair  than  anither.  I  suppose 
it's  like  shootin' ;  ye  juist  blaze  awa'  at  the  first 
bird  'at  rises." 

"  Ye  was  sayin',  had  I  seen  a  lass  wi'  a  lad's 
name.     That  began  it,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"  A  lass  wi'  a  lad's  name  ?  Ay,  noo,  that's  on- 
common.     But  mebbe  ye  mean  Davy  Dundas  ?  " 

"  That's  the  name." 

Tammas  paused  in  the  act  of  buttoning  his 
trouser  pocket. 

"  Did  ye  say  ye'd  seen  Davy  *?  "  he  asked. 
Na,  it  was  you  as  said  'at  ye  had  seen  her." 
Ay,  ay,  Jamie,  ye're  richt.    Man,  I  fully  meant 
to  turn  the  bairn,  but  she  ran  by  at  sic  a  steek  'at 
there  was  nae  stoppin'  her.     Rob'U  mak  an  awfu* 
ring-ding  if  onything  comes  ower  Davy." 

"  Is't  the  litlin  'ats  aye  wi'  Rob  ?  " 

"Ay,  it's  Chirsty  Angus's  bairn,  her  'at  was 
Rob's  sister.     A'  her  fowk's  deid  but  Rob." 

"  I've  seen  them  i'  the  saw-mill  thegither.  It 
didna  strick  me  'at  Rob  cared  muckle  for  the 
crittury." 

"  Ou,  Rob's  a  reserved  stock,  but  he's  michty 
fond  o'  her  when  naebody's  lookin'.     It  doesna 

lo 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT   A   FREE   MAN 

do,  ye  ken,  to  lat  on  afore  company  at  ye've  a 
kind  o'  regaird  for  yere  ain  fowk.  Na,  it's  lowerin'. 
But  if  it  wasna  afore  your  time,  ye'd  seen  the  cradle 
i'  the  saw-mill." 

"  I  never  saw  ony  cradle,  Tammas." 

"  Weel,  it  was  unco'  ingenious  o'  Rob.  The 
bairn's  father  an'  mither  was  baith  gone  when 
Davy  was  nae  age,  an'  auld  Rob  passed  awa'  sune 
efter.  Rob  had  it  all  arranged  to  ging  to  the  col- 
lege—  ay,  he'd  been  workin'  far  on  into  the  nicht 
the  hale  year  to  save  up  siller  to  keep  'imsel  at  Edin- 
bory,  but  ye  see  he  promised  Chirsty  to  look  after 
Davy  an'  no'  send  her  to  the  parish.  He  took  her 
to  the  saw-mill  an'  brocht  her  up  'imsel.  It  was 
a  terrible  disappointment  to  Rob,  his  mind  bein' 
bent  on  becomin'  a  great  leeterary  genius,  but  he's 
been  michty  guid  to  the  bairn.  Ay,  she's  an  ex- 
tror'nar  takkin'  dawty,  Davy,  an'  though  I  wudna 
like  it  kent,  I've  a  fell  notion  o'  her  mysel.  I  mind 
ance  gaen  in  to  Rob's,  an',  wud  ye  believe,  there 
was  the  bit  lassieky  sitting  in  the  airmchair  wi' 
ane  o'  Rob's  books  open  on  her  knees,  an'  her  per- 
tendin'  to  be  readin'  oot  in't  to  Rob.  The  tiddy 
had  watched  him  readin',  ye  unerstan',  an',  man,  she 
was  mimickin'  'im  to  the  life.  There's  nae  accountin' 
for  thae  things,  but  ondootedly  it  was  attractive." 

"  But  what  aboot  a  cradle  *?  " 

"  Ou,  as  I  was  sayin',  Rob  didna  like  to  lat  the 
bairn  oot  o'  his  sicht,  so  he  made  a  queer  cradle 

11 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

'imsel,  an'  put  it  ower  the  burn.  Ye'll  mind  the 
burn  rins  through  the  saw-mill '?  Ay,  weel,  Davy's 
cradle  was  put  across't  wi'  the  paddles  sae  ar- 
ranged 'at  the  watter  rocked  the  cradle.  Man,  the 
burn  was  juist  like  a  mither  to  Davy,  for  no'  only 
did  it  rock  her  to  sleep,  but  it  sang  to  the  bairn  the 
hale  time." 

"  That  was  an  ingenious  contrivance,  Tammas ; 
but  it  was  juist  like  Rob  Angus's  ind'pendence. 
The  crittur  aye  perseests  in  doin'  a'thing  for  'im- 
sel. I  mind  ae  day  seein'  Cree  Deuchars  puttin'  in 
a  window  into  the  saw-mill  hoose,  an'  Rob's  fingers 
was  fair  itchin'  to  do't  quick  'imsel ;  ye  ken  Cree's 
fell  slow  ?  '  See  baud  o'  the  potty,'  cries  Rob,  an' 
losh,  he  had  the  window  in  afore  Cree  cud  hae  cut 
the  glass.  Ay,  ye  canna  deny  but  what  Rob's 
fearfu'  independent." 

"  So  was  his  faither.  I  call  to  mind  auld  Rob 
an'  the  minister  haen  a  termendous  debate  aboot 
justification  by  faith,  an'  says  Rob  i'  the  tail  o'  the 
day,  gettin'  passionate-like,  '  I  tell  ye  flat,  Mester 
Byars,'  he  says,  '  if  I  dinna  ging  to  heaven  in  my 
ain  wy,  I  dinna  ging  ava  I '  " 

"  Losh,  losh  I  he  wudna  hae  said  that,  though,  to 
cor  jninister ;  na,  he  wudna  hae  daured." 

"Ye're  a  U.  P.,  Jamie?"  asked  the  stone- 
breaker. 

"  I  was  born  U.  P.,"  replied  the  mole-catcher, 
firmly,  "an'  U.  P.  I'll  die." 

12 


ROB  ANGUS   IS   NOT   A   FREE   MAN 

"  I  say  naething  agin  yer  releegion,"  replied 
Tammas,  a  little  contemptuously,  "but  to  com- 
pare yer  minister  to  oors  is  a  haver.  Man,  when 
Mester  Byars  was  oor  minister,  Sanders  Dobie,  the 
wricht,  had  a  standin'  engagement  to  mend  the 
poopit  ilka  month." 

"  We'll  no'  speak  o'  releegion,  Tammas,  or 
we'll  be  quarrellin'.  Ye  micht  tell's,  though,  hoo 
they  cam  to  gie  a  lassieky  sic  a  man's  name  as 
Davy." 

"  It  was  an  accident  at  the  christenin'.  Ye  see, 
Hendry  Dundas  an'  Chirsty  was  both  vary  young, 
an'  when  the  bairn  was  born  they  were  shy-like 
aboot  makkin'  the  affair  public ;  ay,  Hendry  cud 
hardly  tak  courage  to  tell  the  minister.  When  he 
was  haddin'  up  the  bit  tid  in  the  kirk  to  be  baptized 
he  was  remarkable  egitated.  Weel,  the  minister 
—  it  was  Mester  Dishart  —  somehoo  had  a  notion 
'at  the  litlin  was  a  laddie,  an'  when  he  reads  the 
name  on  the  paper,  '  Margaret  Dundas,'  he  looks 
at  Hendry  wi'  the  bairny  in's  airms,  an'  says  he, 
stern-like,  '  The  child's  a  boy,  is  he  not"?  '  " 

"  Sal,  that  was  a  predeecament  for  Hendry." 

"  Ay,  an'  Hendry  was  confused,  as  a  man  often 
is  wi'  his  first;  so  says  he,  all  trem'lin',  'Yes,  Mr. 
Dishart.'  '  Then,'  says  the  minister,  '  I  cannot 
christen  him  Margaret,  so  I  will  call  him  David.' 
An'  Davit  the  litlin  was  baptized,  sure  eneuch." 

"  The  mither  wud  be  in  a  michty  wy  at  that  ?  " 

13 


WHEN    A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"She  was  so,  but  as  Hendry  said,  when  she 
challenged  him  on  the  subject,  says  Hendry,  'I 
dauredna  conterdick  the  minister,'" 

Haggart's  work  being  now  over  for  the  day,  he 
sat  down  beside  Jamie  to  await  some  other  stone- 
breakers  who  generally  caught  him  up  on  their 
way  home.  Strange  figures  began  to  emerge  from 
the  woods,  a  dumb  man  with  a  barrowful  of  roots 
for  firewood,  several  women  in  men's  coats,  one 
smoking  a  cutty-pipe,  A  farm-labourer  pulled  his 
heavy  legs  in  their  rustling  corduroys  alongside  a 
field  of  swedes,  a  ragged  potato  bogle  brandished 
its  arms  in  a  sudden  puff  of  wind.  Several  men 
and  women  reached  Haggart's  cairn  about  the 
same  time,  and  said,  "  It  is  so,"  or  "  ay,  ay,"  to 
him,  according  as  they  were  loquacious  or  merely 
polite. 

"  We  was  speakin'  aboot  matermony,"  the  mole- 
catcher  remarked,  as  the  back-bent  little  party 
straggled  toward  Thrums, 

"  It's  a  caution,"  murmured  the  farm-labourer, 
who  had  heard  the  observation  from  the  other  side 
of  the  dyke,  "  Ay,  ye  may  say  so,"  he  added, 
thoughtfully  addressing  himself 

With  the  mole-catcher's  companions,  however, 
the  talk  passed  into  another  rut.  Nevertheless 
Haggart  was  thinking  matrimony  over,  and  by 
and  by  he  saw  his  way  to  a  joke,  for  one  of  the 
other  stone-breakers  had  recently  married  a  very 

H 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT   A   FREE   MAN 

small  woman,  and  in  Thrums,  where  women 
have  to  work,  the  far-seeing  men  prefer  their 
wives  big. 

"  Ye  drew  a  sma'  prize  yersel,  Sam'l,"  said  Tam- 
mas,  with  the  gleam  in  his  eye  which  showed  that 
he  was  now  in  sarcastic  fettle. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  mole-catcher,  "  Sam'l's  Kitty  is 
sma'.  I  suppose  Sam'l  thocht  it  wud  be  prudent- 
like  to  begin  in  a  modest  wy," 

"  If  Kitty  hadna  haen  sae  sma'  hands,"  said 
another  stone-breaker,  "  I  wud  hae  haen  a  bid  for 
her  mysel." 

The  women  smiled ;  they  had  very  large  hands. 

"  They  say,"  said  the  youngest  of  them,  who  had 
a  load  of  firewood  on  her  back,  "  'at  there's  places 
whaur  little  hands  is  thocht  muckle  o'." 

There  was  an  incredulous  laugh  at  this. 

"  I  wudna  wonder,  though,"  said  the  mole- 
catcher,  who  had  travelled  ;  "  there's  some  michty 
queer  ideas  i'  the  big  toons." 

"  Ye'd  better  ging  to  the  big  toons,  then,  Sam'l," 
suggested  the  merciless  Tammas. 

Sam'l  woke  up. 

"  Kitty's  sma',"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle,  "  but 
she's  an  auld  tid." 

"  What  made  ye  think  o'  speirin'  her,  Sam'l  ?  " 

"  I  cudna  say  for  sartin,"  answered  Sam'l,  reflec- 
tively. "  I  had  nae  intention  o't  till  I  saw  Pete 
Proctor  after  her,  an'  syne,  thinks  I,  I'll  hae  her. 

IS 


WHEN   A   iMAN  S   SINGLE 

Ay,  ye  micht  say  as  Pete  was  the  instrument  o* 
Providence  in  that  case." 

"  Man,  man,"  murmured  Jamie,  who  knew  Pete, 
"  Providence  sometimes  maks  use  o'  strange  instru- 
ments." 

"  Ye  was  lang  in  gettin'  a  man  yersel.  Jinny," 
said  Tammas  to  an  elderly  woman. 

"  Fower  an'  forty  year,"  replied  Jinny.  '  It  was 
like  a  stockin',  lang  i'  the  I'utin',  but  turned  at 
last." 

"  Lassies  nooadays,"  said  the  old  woman  who 
smoked,  "  is  partikler  by  what  they  used  to  be.  I 
mind  when  Jeames  Gowrie  speired  me  :  '  Ye  wud 
raither  hae  Davit  Curly,  I  ken,'  he  says.  '  I  dinna 
deny't,'  I  says,  for  the  thing  was  well  kent,  '  but 
ye'U  do  vara  weel,  Jeames,'  says  I,  an'  mairy  him 
I  did." 

"  He  was  a  harmless  crittur,  Jeames,"  said  Hag- 
gart,  "  but  queer.     Ay,  he  was  full  o'  maggots." 

"  Ay,"  said  Jeames's  widow,  "  but  though  it's 
no'  for  me  to  say't,  he  deid  a  deacon." 

"  There's  some  rale  queer  wys  o'  speirin'  a 
wuman,"  began  the  mole-catcher. 

"  Vary  true,  Jamie,"  said  a  stone-breaker.  "  I 
mind  hoo  —  " 

"  There  was  a  chappy  ower  by  Blair,"  continued 
Jamie,  raising  his  voice,  "'at  micht  hae  been  a 
single  man  to  this  day  if  it  hadna  been  for  the 
toothache." 

16 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT   A   FREE   MAN 

"  Ay,  man  ?  " 

"Joey  Fargus  was  the  stock's  name.  He  was 
oncommon  troubled  wi'  the  toothache  till  he  found 
a  cure." 

"  I  didna  ken  o'  onv  cure  for  sair  teeth '?  " 

"  Joey's  cure  was  to  pour  cauld  watter  stretcht 
on  into  his  mooth  for  the  maiter  o'  twa  'oors,  an' 
ae  day  he  cam  into  Blair  an'  found  Jess  McTaggart 
(a  speerity  bit  thingy  she  was  —  ou,  she  was  so) 
fliir  greetin'  wi'  sair  teeth.  Joey  advised  the  crittur 
to  try  his  cure,  an'  when  he  left  she  was  pourin'  the 
watter  into  her  mooth  ower  the  sink.  Weel,  it  so 
happened  'at  Joey  was  in  Blair  again  aboot  twa 
month  after,  an'  he  gies  a  cry  in  at  Willie's  — 
that's  Jess's  father's,  as  ye'll  un'erstan'.  Ay,  then, 
Jess  had  haen  anither  fit  o'  the  toothache,  an'  she 
was  hingin'  ower  the  sink  wi'  a  tanker  o'  watter  in 
her  han',  juist  as  she'd  been  when  he  saw  her  last. 
'  What ! '  says  Joey,  wi'  rale  consairn, '  nae  better 
yet*?'  The  stock  thocht  she  had  been  haddin' 
saen  at  the  watter  a'  thae  twa  month." 

"  I  call  to  mind,"  the  stone-breaker  broke  in 
again,  "hoo  a  body  —  " 

"  So,"  continued  Jamie,  "  Joey  cudna  help  but 
admire  the  patience  o'  the  lassie,  an'  says  he,  'Jess,* 
he  says,  '  come  oot  by  to  Mortar  Pits,  an'  try  oor 
well.'  That's  hoo  Joey  Fargus  speired's  wife,  an' 
if  ye  dinna  believe's,  ye've  nae  mair  to  do  but  ging 
to  Mortar  Pits  an'  see  the  well  yersels." 

'7 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  I  recall,"  said  the  stone-breaker,  "  a  very  neat 
case  o'  speirin'.  It  was  Jocky  Wilkie,  him  'at's 
brither  was  grieve  to  Broken  Busses,  an'  the  lass 
was  Leeby  Lunan.  She  was  aye  puttin'  Jocky  aff 
when  he  was  on  the  point  o'  speirin'  her,  keepin' 
'im  hingin'  on  the  hook  like  a  trout,  as  ye  may  say, 
an'  takkin'  her  fling  wi'  ither  lads  at  the  same 
time." 

"  Ay,  I've  kent  them  do  that." 

"  Weel,  it  fair  maddened  Jocky,  so  ae  nicht  he 
gings  to  her  father's  hoose  wi'  a  present  o'  a  grand 
thimble  to  her  in  his  pooch,  an'  afore  the  hale 
hoosehold  he  perdooces't  an'  flings't  wi'  a  bang  on 
the  dresser :  '  Tak  it,'  he  says  to  Leeby, '  or  leave't.* 
In  coorse  the  thing's  bein'  done  sae  public-like, 
Leeby  kent  she  had  to  mak  up  her  mind  there  an' 
then.     Ay,  she  took  it." 

"  But  hoo  did  ye  speir  Chirsty  yersel,  Dan'l  *?  " 
asked  Jinny  of  the  speaker. 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this,  for,  as  was  well  known, 
Dan'l  had  jilted  Chirsty. 

"  I  never  kent  I  had  speired,"  replied  the  stone- 
breaker,  "  till  Chirsty  told  me." 

"  Ye'll  no'  say  ye  wasna  fond  o'  her  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  was,  an'  syne  at  other  times  I  was 
indifferent-like.  The  mair  I  thocht  o't  the  mair 
risky  I  saw  it  was,  so  'i  the  tail  o'  the  day  I  says 
to  Chirsty,  says  I,  'Na,  na,  Chirsty,  lat's  be  as  I 


am.' " 


18 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT   A   FREE   MAN 

"  They  say  she  took  on  terrible,  Dan'l." 

"  Ay,  nae  doot,  but  a  man  has  'imself  to  con- 
seeder." 

By  this  time  they  had  crossed  the  moor  of  whins. 
It  was  a  cold,  still  evening,  and  as  they  paused 
before  climbing  down  into  the  town  they  heard 
the  tinkle  of  a  bell. 

"That's  Snecky's  bell,"  said  the  mole-catcher; 
"  what  can  he  be  cryin'  at  this  time  o'  nicht  *?  " 

"  There's  something  far  wrang,"  said  one  of  the 
women.     "  Look,  a'body's  rinnin'  to  the  square." 

The  troubled  look  returned  to  Tammas  Hag- 
gart's  face,  and  he  stopped  to  look  back  across  the 
fast  darkening  moor. 

"  Did  ony  o'  ye  see  little  Davy  Dundas,  the  saw- 
miller's  bairny  *?  "  he  began. 

At  that  moment  a  young  man  swept  by.  His 
teeth  were  clenched,  his  eyes  glaring. 

"  Speak  o'  the  deil,"  said  the  mole-catcher;  "that 
was  Rob  Angus." 


CHAPTER   II 


ROB    BECOMES    FREE 


As  Haggart  hobbled  down  into  the  square,  in  the 
mole-catcher's  rear,  Hobart's  cracked  bell  tinkled 
up  the  back-wynd,  and  immediately  afterwards  the 
bellman  took  his  stand  by  the  side  of  Tam  Peter's 
fish-cart.  Snecky  gave  his  audience  time  to  gather, 
for  not  every  day  was  it  given  him  to  cry  a  lost 
bairn.  The  words  fell  slowly  from  his  reluctant 
lips.  Before  he  flung  back  his  head  and  ejected 
his  proclamation  in  a  series  of  puffs  he  was  the 
possessor  of  exclusive  news,  but  his  tongue  had 
hardly  ceased  to  roll  round  the  concluding  sen- 
tence when  the  crowd  took  up  the  cry  themselves. 
Wives  flinging  open  their  windows  shouted  their 
fears  across  the  wynds.  Davy  Dundas  had  wan- 
dered from  the  kirkyard,  where  Rob  had  left  her  in 
Kitty  Wilkie's  charge  till  he  returned  from  the 
woods.  What  had  Kitty  been  about?  It  was 
believed  that  the  litlin  had  taken  with  her  a  letter 
that  had  come  for  Rob.  Was  Rob  back  from  the 
woods  yet  ?  Ay,  he  had  scoured  the  whole  coun- 
tryside already  for  her. 

20 


ROB   BECOMES   FREE 

Men  gathered  on  the  saw-mill  brig,  looking  per- 
plexedly at  the  burn  that  swirled  at  this  point,  a 
sawdust  colour,  between  wooden  boards;  but  the 
women  pressed  their  bairns  closely  to  their  wrap- 
pers and  gazed  in  each  other's  faces. 

A  log  of  wood,  with  which  some  one  had  sought 
to  improvise  a  fire  between  the  bricks  that  nar- 
rowed Rob  Angus's  grate,  turned  peevishly  to 
charcoal  without  casting  much  light  on  the  men 
and  women  in  the  saw-mill  kitchen.  Already  the 
burn  had  been  searched  near  the  mill,  with  Rob's 
white  face  staring  at  the  searchers  from  his  door. 

The  room  was  small  and  close.  A  closet-bed 
with  the  door  off  afforded  seats  for  several  persons ; 
and  Davit  Lunan,  the  tinsmith,  who  could  read 
Homer  with  Rob  in  the  original,  sat  clumsily  on 
the  dresser.  The  pendulum  of  a  wag-at-the-wa' 
clock  swung  silently  against  the  wall,  casting  a 
mouse-like  shadow  on  the  hearth.  Over  the  man- 
telpiece was  a  sampler  in  many  colours,  the  work 
of  Rob's  mother  when  she  was  still  a  maid.  The 
book-case,  fitted  into  a  recess  that  had  once  held  a 
{>ress,  was  Rob's  own  handiwork,  and  contained 
more  books  than  any  other  house  in  Thrums. 
Overhead  the  thick  wooden  rafters  were  crossed 
with  saws  and  staves. 

There  was  a  painful  silence  in  the  gloomy  room. 
Snecky  Hobart  tried  to  break  the  log  in  the  fire- 
place, using  his  leg  as  a  poker,  but  desisted  when 

21 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

he  saw  every  eye  turned  on  him.  A  glitter  of 
sparks  shot  up  the  chimney,  and  the  starhng  in  the 
window  began  to  whistle.  Pete  Todd  looked  un- 
decidedly at  the  minister,  and,  lifting  a  sack,  flung 
it  over  tlie  bird's  cage,  as  if  anticipating  the  worst. 
In  Thrums  they  veil  their  cages  if  there  is  a  death 
in  the  house. 

"  What  do  ye  mean,  Pete  Todd  ?  "  cried  Rob 
Angus,  fiercely. 

His  voice  broke,  but  he  seized  the  sack  and  cast 
it  on  the  floor.  The  starling,  however,  whistled  no 
more. 

Looking  as  if  he  could  strike  Pete  Todd,  Rob 
stood  in  the  centre  of  his  kitchen,  a  saw-miller  for 
the  last  time.  Though  they  did  not  know  it,  his 
neighbours  there  were  photographing  him  in  their 
minds,  and  their  children  were  destined  to  gape  in 
the  days  to  come  over  descriptions  of  Rob  Angus 
in  corduroys. 

These  pictures  showed  a  broad-shouldered  man 
of  twenty-six,  whose  face  was  already  rugged.  A 
short  brown  beard  hid  the  heavy  chin,  and  the  lips 
were  locked  as  if  Rob  feared  to  show  that  he  was 
anxious  about  the  child.  His  clear  gray  eyes  were 
younger-looking  than  his  forehead,  and  the  swollen 
balls  beneath  them  suggested  a  student  rather  than 
a  working  man.  His  hands  were  too  tanned  and 
hard  ever  to  be  white,  and  he  delved  a  little  in  his 
walk,  as  if  he  felt  uncomfortable  without  a  weight 

22 


ROB   BECOMES   FREE 

on  his  back.  He  was  the  best  saw-miller  in  his 
county,  but  his  ambition  would  have  scared  his 
customers  had  he  not  kept  it  to  himself.  Many  a 
time  strangers  had  stared  at  him  as  he  strode  along 
the  Whunny  road,  and  wondered  what  made  this 
stalwart  man  whirl  the  axe  that  he  had  been  using 
as  a  staff.  Then  Rob  was  thinking  of  the  man 
he  was  going  to  be  when  he  could  safely  leave 
little  Davy  behind  him,  and  it  was  not  the  firs  of 
the  Whunny  wood  that  were  in  his  eye,  but  a  roar- 
ing city  and  a  sawMniller  taking  it  by  the  throat. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  he  bore  no  love  for 
the  bairn  who  came  between  him  and  his  career. 

Rob  was  so  tall  that  he  could  stand  erect  in  but 
few  rooms  in  Thrums,  and  long  afterwards,  when 
very  different  doors  opened  to  him,  he  still  invol- 
untarily ducked,  as  he  crossed  a  threshold,  to  save 
his  head.  Up  to  the  day  on  which  Davy  wandered 
from  home  he  had  never  lifted  his  hat  to  a  lady ; 
when  he  did  that  the  influence  of  Thrums  would 
be  broken  for  ever. 

"  It's  oncommon  foolish  o'  Rob,"  said  Pete  Todd, 
retreating  to  the  side  of  the  mole-catcher,  "  no'  to 
be  mair  resigned-like." 

*'  It's  his  ind'pendence,"  answered  Jamie ;  "  ay, 
the  wricht  was  sayin'  the  noo,  says  he,  '  If  Davy's 
deid,  Rob'll  mak  the  coffin  'imsel,  he's  sae  michty 
ind'pendent'  " 

Tammas  Haggart  stumbled  into  the  saw-miller's 

23 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

kitchen.  It  would  have  been  a  womanish  kind  of 
thing  to  fling  to  the  door  behind  him. 

"  Fine  growin'  day,  Rob,"  he  said,  deliberately. 

"  It  is  so,  Tammas,"  answered  the  saw-miller, 
hospitably,  for  Haggart  had  been  his  father's  bosom 
friend. 

''  No'  much  drowth,  I'm  thinkin',"  said  Hobart, 
relieved  by  the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken. 

Tammas  pulled  from  beneath  the  table  an  un- 
steady three-legged  stool  —  Davy's  stool  —  and  sat 
down  on  it  slowly.  Rob  took  a  step  nearer  as  if  to 
ask  him  to  sit  somewhere  else,  and  then  turned 
away  his  head. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Haggart. 

Then,  as  he  saw  the  others  gathering  round  the 
minister  at  the  door,  he  moved  uneasily  on  his 
stool. 

"  Whaur's  Davy  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Did  ye  no'  ken  she  was  lost  ?  "  the  saw-miller 
asked,  in  a  voice  that  was  hardly  his  own. 

"Ay,  I  kent,"  said  Tammas;  "she's  on  the 
Whunny  road." 

Rob  had  been  talking  to  the  minister  in  what 
both  thought  English,  which  in  Thrums  is  con- 
sidered an  ostentatious  language,  but  he  turned  on 
Tammas  in  broad  Scotch.  In  the  years  to  come, 
when  he  could  wear  gloves  without  concealing  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  excitement  brought  on  Scotch 
as  a  poultice  raises  blisters. 

24 


ROB   BECOMES   FREE 

"  Tammas  Haggart,"  he  cried,  pulling  the  stone- 
breaker  off  his  stool. 

The  minister  interposed. 

"  Tell  us  what  you  know  at  once,  Tammas," 
said  Mr.  Dishart,  who,  out  of  the  pulpit,  had  still 
a  heart. 

It  was  a  sad  tale  that  Haggart  had  to  tell,  if  a 
short  one,  and  several  of  the  listeners  shook  their 
heads  as  they  heard  it. 

"  I  meant  to  turn  the  lassieky,"  the  stone-breaker 
explained,  "  but,  ou,  she  was  past  in  a  twinklin'." 

On  the  saw-mill  brig  the  minister  quickly  orga- 
nized a  search  party,  the  brig  that  Rob  had  floored 
anew  but  the  week  before,  rising  daily  with  the  sun 
to  do  it  because  the  child's  little  boot  had  caught  in 
a  worn  board.  From  it  she  had  often  crooned  to 
watch  the  dank  mill-wheel  climbing  the  bouncing 
burn.  Ah,  Rob,  the  rotten  old  planks  would  have 
served  your  turn. 

"  The  Whunny  road,"  were  the  words  passed 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  the  driblet  of  men  fell 
into  line. 

Impetuous  is  youth,  and  the  minister  was  not  per- 
haps greatly  to  blame  for  starting  at  once.  But  Lang 
Tammas,  his  chief  elder,  paused  on  the  threshold. 

"  The  Lord  giveth,"  he  said,  solemnly,  taking 
off  his  hat  and  letting  the  night  air  cut  through  his 
white  hair,  "  and  the  Lord  taketli  away :  blessed  be 
the  name  of  the  Lord." 

25 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

The  saw-miller  opened  his  mouth,  but  no  words 
came. 

The  little  search  party  took  the  cold  Whunny 
road.  The  day  had  been  bright  and  fine,  and  still 
there  was  a  smell  of  flowers  in  the  air.  The  fickle 
flowers  I  They  had  clustered  round  Davy  and 
nestled  on  her  neck  when  she  drew  the  half- 
ashamed  saw-miller  through  the  bleating  meadows, 
and  now  they  could  smile  on  him  when  he  came 
alone  —  all  except  the  daisies.  The  daisies,  that 
cannot  play  a  child  false,  had  craned  their  necks  to 
call  Davy  back  as  she  tripped  over  them,  and  bowed 
their  heavy  little  heads  as  she  toddled  on.  It  was 
from  them  that  the  bairn's  track  was  learned  after 
she  wandered  from  the  Whunny  road. 

By  and  by  the  hills  ceased  to  echo  their  wailing 
response  to  Hobart's  bell. 

Far  in  the  rear  of  the  more  eager  searchers,  the 
bellman  and  the  joiner  had  found  a  seat  on  a  mossy 
bank,  and  others,  footsore  and  weary,  had  fallen 
elsewhere  from  the  ranks.  The  minister  and  half 
a  dozen  others  scattered  over  the  fields  and  on 
the  hillsides,  despondent,  but  not  daring  to  lag. 
Tinkers  cowered  round  their  kettles  under  threat- 
ening banks,  and  the  squirrels  were  shadows  glid- 
ing from  tree  to  tree. 

At  a  distant  smithy  a  fitful  light  still  winked  to 
the  wind,  but  the  farm  lamps  were  out  and  all  the 

26 


ROB   BECOMES   FREE 

land  was  hushed.  It  was  now  long  past  midnight 
in  country  parts. 

Rob  Angus  was  young  and  strong,  but  the 
heaven-sent  gift  of  tears  was  not  for  him.  Blessed 
the  moaning  mother  by  the  cradle  of  her  eldest- 
born,  and  the  maid  in  tears  for  the  lover  who  went 
out  so  brave  in  the  morning  and  was  not  at  even- 
fall,  and  the  weeping  sister  who  can  pray  for  her  sol- 
dier brother,  and  the  wife  on  her  husband's  bosom. 

Some  of  his  neighbours  had  thought  it  unmanly 
when  Rob,  at  the  rumble  of  a  cart,  hurried  from 
the  saw-mill  to  snatch  the  child  in  his  arms,  and 
bear  her  to  a  bed  of  shavings.  At  such  a  time 
Davy  would  lift  a  saw  to  within  an  inch  of  her 
baby-face,  and  then,  letting  it  fall  with  a  wicked 
chuckle,  run  to  the  saw-miller's  arms,  as  sure  of  her 
lover  as  ever  maiden  was  of  man. 

A  bashful  lover  he  had  been,  shy,  not  of  Davy, 
but  of  what  men  would  say,  and  now  the  time  had 
come  when  he  looked  wistfully  back  to  a  fevered 
child  tossing  in  a  dark  bed,  the  time  when  a  light 
burned  all  night  in  Rob's  kitchen,  and  a  trembling 
heavy-eyed  man  sat  motionless  on  a  high-backed 
chair.  How  noiselessly  he  approached  the  bonny 
mite  and  replaced  the  arm  that  had  wandered  from 
beneath  the  coverlet  I  Ah,  for  the  old  time  when  a 
sick  imperious  child  told  her  uncle  to  lie  down 
beside  her,  and  Rob  sat  on  the  bed,  looking  shame- 

27 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

facedly  at  the  minister.  Mr.  Dishart  had  turned 
away  his  head.  Such  things  are  not  to  be  told. 
They  are  between  a  man  and  his  God. 

Far  up  the  Whunny  hill  they  found  Davy's  little 
shoe.  Rob  took  it  in  his  hand,  a  muddy,  draggled 
shoe  that  had  been  a  pretty  thing  when  he  put  it 
on  her  foot  that  morning.  The  others  gathered 
austerely  around  him,  and  strong  Rob  stood  still 
among  the  brackens. 

"  I'm  dootin'  she's  deid,"  said  Tammas  Haggart. 

Haggart  looked  in  the  face  of  old  Rob's  son, 
and  then  a  strange  and  beautiful  thing  happened. 
To  the  wizened  stone-breaker  it  was  no  longer  the 
sombre  Whunny  hill  that  lay  before  him.  Two 
barefooted  herd-laddies  were  on  the  green  fields 
of  adjoining  farms.  The  moon  looking  over  the 
hills  found  them  on  their  ragged  backs,  with  the 
cows  munching  by  their  side.  They  had  grown 
different  boys,  nor  known  why,  among  the  wild 
roses  of  red  and  white,  and  trampling  neck-high 
among  the  ferns.  Haggart  saw  once  again  the 
raspberry  bushes  they  had  stripped  together  into 
flagons  gleaming  in  the  grass.  Rob  had  provided 
the  bent  pin  with  which  Tammas  lured  his  first 
trout  to  land,  and  Tammas  in  return  had  invited 
him  to  thraw  the  neck  of  a  doomed  hen.  They 
had  wandered  hand-in-hand  through  thirsty  grass, 
when  scythes  whistled  in  the  corn-fields,  and  larks 
trilled  overhead,  and  braes  were  golden  with  broom. 

28 


ROB   BECOMES   FREE 

They  are  two  broad-shouldered  men  now,  and 
Haggart's  back  is  rounding  at  the  loom.  From 
his  broken  window  he  can  see  Rob  at  the  saw-mill, 
whistling  as  the  wheel  goes  around.  It  is  Saturday 
night,  and  they  are  in  the  square,  clean  and  dapper, 
talking  with  other  gallants  about  lasses.  They  are 
courting  the  same  maid,  and  she  sits  on  a  stool 
by  the  door,  knitting  a  stocking,  with  a  lover  on 
each  side.  They  drop  in  on  her  mother  straining 
the  blaeberry  juice  through  a  bag  suspended  be- 
tween two  chairs.  They  sheepishly  admire  while 
Easie  singes  a  hen ;  for  love  of  her  they  help  her 
father  to  pit  his  potatoes ;  and  then,  for  love  of  the 
other,  each  gives  her  up.  It  is  a  Friday  night,  and 
from  a  but  and  ben  around  which  the  rabble  heave 
and  toss,  a  dozen  couples  emerge  in  strangely  gay 
and  bright  apparel.  Rob  leads  the  way  with  one 
lass,  and  Tammas  follows  with  another.  It  must 
be  Rob's  wedding-day. 

Dim  grow  Tammas's  eyes  on  the  Whunny  hill. 
The  years  whirl  by,  and  already  he  sees  a  grumpy 
gravedigger  go  out  to  dig  Rob's  grave.  Alas  I  for 
the  flash  into  the  past  that  sorrow  gives.  As  he 
clutches  young  Rob's  hand  the  light  dies  from 
Tammas's  eyes,  his  back  grows  round  and  bent, 
and  the  hair  is  silvered  that  lay  in  tousled  locks  on 
a  lad's  head. 

A  nipping  wind  cut  the  search  party  and  fled 
down  the  hill  that  was  changing  in  colour  from 

29 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

black,  to  grey.  The  searchers  miglit  have  been 
smugglers  laden  with  whisky  bladders,  such  as 
haunted  the  mountain  in  bygone  days.  Far  away 
at  Thrums  mothers  still  wrung  their  hands  for 
Davy,  but  the  men  slept. 

Heads  were  bared,  and  the  minister  raised  his 
voice  in  prayer.  One  of  the  psalms  of  David 
trembled  in  the  grey  of  the  morning  straight  to 
heaven ;  and  then  two  young  men,  glancing  at  Mr. 
Dishart,  raised  aloft  a  fallen  rowan-tree,  to  let  it 
fall  as  it  listed.  It  fell  pointing  straight  down  the 
hill,  and  the  search  party  took  that  direction;  all 
but  Rob,  who  stood  motionless,  with  the  shoe  in 
his  hand.  He  did  not  seem  to  comprehend  the 
minister's  beckoning. 

Haggart  took  him  by  the  arm. 

''  Rob,  man,  Rob  Angus,"  he  said,  "  she  was  but 
fower  year  auld." 

The  stone-breaker  unbuttoned  his  trouser- 
pocket,  and  with  an  unsteady  hand  drew  out  his 
snuff-mull.  Rob  tried  to  take  it,  but  his  arm 
trembled,  and  the   mull  fell  among  the  heather. 

"  Keep  yourselves  from  idols,"  said  Lang  Tam- 
mas,  sternly. 

But  the  minister  was  young,  and  children  lisped 
his  name  at  the  white  manse  among  the  trees  at 
home.  He  took  the  shoe  from  the  saw-miller  who 
had  once  been  independent,  and  they  went  down 
the  hill  together. 

30 


ROB   BECOMES   FREE 

Davy  lay  dead  at  the  edge  of  the  burn  that 
gurgles  on  to  the  saw-mill,  one  little  foot  washed 
by  the  stream.  The  Whunny  had  rocked  her  to 
sleep  for  the  last  time.  Half  covered  with  grass, 
her  baby-fist  still  clutched  the  letter.  When  Rob 
saw  her,  he  took  his  darling  dead  bairn  in  his  arms 
and  faced  the  others  with  cracking  jaws. 

"  I  dinna  ken,"  said  Tammas  Haggart,  after  a 
pause,  "  but  what  it's  kind  of  nat'ral." 


31 


CHAPTER  III 

ROB  GOES  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD 

One  evening,  nearly  a  month  after  Rob  Angus 
became  "single," Mr. George  Frederick  Licquorish, 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Silchester  Mirror,  was 
sitting  in  his  office  cutting  advertisements  out  of 
the  Silchester  Argus,  and  pasting  each  on  a  separate 
sheet  of  paper.  These  advertisements  had  not  been 
sent  to  the  Mirror,  and,  as  he  thought  this  a  pity, 
he  meant,  through  his  canvasser,  to  call  the  atten- 
tion of  the  advertisers  to  the  omission. 

Mr.  Licquorish  was  a  stout  little  man,  with  a 
benevolent  countenance,  who  wrote  most  of  his 
leaders  on  the  backs  of  old  envelopes.  Every  few 
minutes  he  darted  into  the  composing-room,  with 
an  alertness  that  was  a  libel  on  his  genial  face; 
and  when  he  returned  it  was  pleasant  to  observe 
the  kindly,  good-natured  manner  in  which  he 
chaffed  the  printer's  devil  who  was  trying  to  light 
the  fire.  It  was,  however,  also  noticeable  that 
what  the  devil  said  subsequently  to  another  devil 
was  —  "  But,  you  know,  he  wouldn't  give  me  any 
sticks." 

V 


ROB  GOES  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD 

The  Mirror  and  the  Argus  are  two  daily  news- 
papers published  in  Silchester,  each  of  which  has 
the  largest  circulation  in  the  district,  and  is  there- 
fore much  the  better  advertising  medium.  Sil- 
chester is  the  chief  town  of  an  English  midland 
county,  and  the  Mirror's  business  note-paper  refers 
to  it  as  the  centre  of  a  population  of  half  a  million 
souls. 

The  Mirror's  offices  are  nearly  crushed  out  of 
sight  in  a  block  of  buildings,  left  in  the  middle  of 
a  street  for  town  councils  to  pull  down  gradually. 
This  island  of  houses,  against  which  a  sea  of 
humanity  beats  daily,  is  cut  in  two  by  a  narrow 
passage,  off  which  several  doors  open.  One  of 
these  leads  up  a  dirty  stair  to  the  editorial  and 
composing-rooms  of  the  Daily  Mirror^  and  down  a 
dirty  stair  to  its  printing-rooms.  It  is  the  door  at 
which  you  may  hammer  for  an  hour  without  any 
one's  paying  the  least  attention. 

During  the  time  the  boy  took  to  light  Mr. 
Licquorish's  fire,  a  young  man  in  a  heavy  over- 
coat knocked  more  than  once  at  the  door  in  the 
alley,  and  then  moved  off  as  if  somewhat  relieved 
that  there  was  no  response.  He  walked  round  and 
round  the  block  of  buildings,  gazing  upwards  at 
the  windows  of  the  composing-room  ;  and  several 
times  he  ran  against  other  pedestrians  on  whom  he 
turned  fiercely,  and  would  then  have  begged  their 
pardons  had  he  known  what  to  say.     Frequently 

33 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

he  lelt  in  his  pocket  to  see  if  his  money  was  still 
there,  and  once  he  went  behind  a  door  and  counted 
it.  There  was  three  pounds  seventeen  shillings 
altogether,  and  he  kept  it  in  a  Hnen  bag  that  had 
been  originally  made  for  carrying  worms  in  when 
he  went  fishing.  When  he  re-entered  the  close 
he  always  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  if  any  persons 
emerged  from  the  Mirror  office  he  looked  after 
them.  They  were  mostly  telegraph  boys,  who 
fluttered  out  and  in. 

When  Mr.  Licquorish  dictated  an  article,  as  he 
did  frequently,  the  apprentice-reporter  went  into 
the  editor's  room  to  take  it  down,  and  the  reporters 
always  asked  him,  as  a  favour,  to  shut  George 
Frederick's  door  behind  him.  This  apprentice- 
reporter  did  the  police  reports  and  the  magazine 
notices,  and  he  wondered  a  good  deal  whether  the 
older  reporters  really  did  like  brandy  and  soda. 
The  reason  why  John  Milton,  which  was  the  un- 
fortunate name  of  this  boy,  was  told  to  close  the 
editorial  door  behind  him  was  that  it  was  close  to 
the  door  of  the  reporters'  room,  and  generally  stood 
open.  The  impression  the  reporters'  room  made 
on  a  chance  visitor  varied  according  as  Mr.  Lic- 
quorish's  door  was  ajar  or  shut.  When  they  heard 
it  locked  on  the  inside,  the  reporters  and  the  sub- 
editor breathed  a  sigh  of  relief;  when  it  opened 
they  took  their  legs  off  the  desk. 

The  editor's  room  had  a  carpet,  and  was  chiefly 

34 


ROB  GOES   OUT   INTO   THE  WORLD 

furnished  with  books  sent  in  for  review.  It  was 
more  comfortable,  but  more  gloomy-looking  than 
the  reporters'  room,  which  had  a  long  desk  running 
along  one  side  of  it,  and  a  bunk  for  holding  coals 
and  old  newspapers  on  the  other  side.  The  floor 
was  so  littered  with  papers,  many  of  them  still  in 
their  wrappers,  that,  on  his  way  between  his  seat 
and  the  door,  the  reporter  generally  kicked  one  or 
more  into  the  bunk.  It  was  in  this  way,  unless  an 
apprentice  happened  to  be  otherwise  disengaged, 
that  the  floor  was  swept. 

In  this  room  were  a  reference  library  and  an  old 
coat.  The  library  was  within  reach  of  the  sub- 
editor's hand,  and  contained  some  fifty  books, 
which  the  literary  staff  could  consult,  with  the  con- 
viction that  they  would  find  the  page  they  wanted 
missing.  The  coat  had  hung  unbrushed  on  a  nail 
for  many  years,  and  was  so  thick  with  dust  that 
John  Milton  could  draw  pictures  on  it  with  his 
finger.  According  to  legend,  it  was  the  coat  of  a 
distinguished  novelist,  who  had  once  been  a  re- 
porter on  the  Mirror^  and  had  left  Silchester  un- 
ostentatiously by  his  window. 

It  was  Penny,  the  foreman  in  the  composing- 
room,  who  set  the  literary  staff  talking  about  tlie 
new  reporter.  Penny  was  a  lank,  loosely  jointed 
man  of  forty,  who  shuffled  about  the  office  in 
slippers,  ruled  the  compositors  with  a  loud  voice 
and  a  blustering  manner,  and  was  believed  to  be 

2>S 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

in  Mr.  Licquorish's  confidence.  His  politics  were 
respect  for  the  House  of  Lords,  because  it  rose 
early,  enabling  him  to  have  it  set  before  supper- 
time. 

The  foreman  slithered  so  quickly  from  one  room 
to  another  that  he  was  at  the  sub-editor's  elbow 
before  his  own  door  had  time  to  shut.  There  was 
some  copy  in  his  hand,  and  he  flung  it  contempt- 
uously upon  the  desk. 

"  Look  here,  Mister,"  he  said,  flinging  the  copy 
upon  the  sub-editor's  desk,  "  I  don't  want  that." 

The  sub-editor  was  twisted  into  as  little  space  as 
possible,  tearing  telegrams  open  and  flinging  the 
envelopes  aside,  much  as  a  housewife  shells  peas. 
His  name  was  Protheroe,  and  the  busier  he  was 
the  more  he  twisted  himself  On  Budget  nights 
he  was  a  knot.  He  did  voluntarily  so  much  extra 
work  that  Mr.  Licquorish  often  thought  he  gave 
him  too  high  wages ;  and  on  slack  nights  he  smiled 
to  himself,  which  showed  that  something  pleased 
him.  It  was  rather  curious  that  this  something 
should  have  been  himself 

"  But  —  but,"  cried  Protheroe.  all  in  a  flutter, 
"it's  town  council  meeting;  it  —  it  must  be  set, 
Mr.  Penny." 

"  Very  well.  Mister  ;  then  that  special  from  Bir- 
mingham must  be  slaughtered." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Penny ;  why,  that's  a  speech  by 
Bright." 

36 


ROB   GOES   OUT   INTO   THE   WORLD 

Penny  sneered  at  the  sub-editor,  and  flung  up 
his  arms  to  imply  that  he  washed  his  hands  of  the 
whole  thing,  as  he  had  done  every  night  for  the 
last  ten  years,  when  there  was  pressure  on  his 
space.  Protheroe  had  been  there  for  half  of  that 
time,  yet  he  still  trembled  before  the  autocrat  of 
the  office. 

"  There's  enough  copy  on  the  board,"  said 
Penny,  "  to  fill  the  paper.  Any  more  specials 
coming  in  ?  " 

He  asked  this  fiercely,  as  if  of  opinion  that  the 
sub-editor  arranged  with  leading  statesmen  nightly 
to  flood  the  composing-room  of  the  Mirror  with 
speeches,  and  Protheroe  replied  abjectly,  as  if  he 
had  been  caught  doing  it  —  "  Lord  John  Manners 
is  speaking  to-night  at  Nottingham." 

The  foreman  dashed  his  hand  upon  the  desk. 

"  Go  it,  Mister,  go  it,"  he  criv-d ;  "  anything  else  ? 
Tell  me  Gladstone's  dead  next." 

Sometimes  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
Penny  would  get  sociable,  and  the  sub-editor  was 
always  glad  to  respond.  On  those  occasions  they 
talked  with  bated  breath  of  the  amount  of  copy 
that  would  come  in  should  anything  happen  to  Mr. 
Gladstone ;  and  the  sub-editor,  if  he  was  in  a  de- 
spondent mood,  predicted  that  it  would  occur  at 
midnight.  Thinking  of  this  had  made  him  a  Con- 
servative. 

"  Nothing  so  bad  as  that,"  he  said,  dwelling  on 

37 

4922S 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

the  subject,  to  show  the  foreman  that  they  might 
be  worse  off;  "but  there's  a  column  of  local  com- 
ing in,  and  a  concert  in  the  People's  Hall,  and  —  " 

"  And  you  expect  me  to  set  all  that  ?  "  the  fore- 
man broke  in.  "  Why,  the  half  of  that  local  should 
have  been  set  by  seven  o'clock,  and  here  I've  only 
got  the  beginning  of  the  town  council  yet.  It's 
ridiculous." 

Protheroe  looked  timidly  towards  the  only  re- 
porter present,  and  then  apologetically  towards 
Penny  for  having  looked  at  the  reporter. 

"  The  stuff  must  be  behind,"  growled  Tomlin- 
son,  nicknamed  Umbrage,  "  as  long  as  we're  a  man 
short." 

Umbrage  was  very  short  and  stout,  with  a  big 
moon  face,  and  always  wore  his  coat  unbuttoned. 
In  the  streets,  if  he  was  walking  fast  and  there  was 
a  breeze,  his  coat-tails  seemed  to  be  running  after 
him.  He  squinted  a  little,  from  a  habit  he  had  of 
looking  sideways  at  public  meetings  to  see  if  the 
audience  was  gazing  at  him.  He  was  "  Juvenal " 
in  the  Mirror  on  Friday  mornings,  and  headed  his 
column  of  local  gossip  which  had  that  signature, 
"  Now  step  I  forth  to  whip  hypocrisy." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  sub-editor,  with  an  insinuat- 
ing glance  at  the  foreman,  "  if  the  new  man  is  ex- 
pected to-night." 

Mr.  Licquorish  had  told  him  that  this  was  so  an 
hour  before,  but  the  cunning  bred  of  fear  advised 

38 


ROB  GOES  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD 

him  to  give  Penny  the  opportunity  of  divulging 
the  news. 

That  worthy  smiled  to  himself,  as  any  man  has 
a  right  to  do  who  has  been  told  something  in  con- 
fidence by  his  employer. 

"  He's  a  Yorkshireman,  I  believe,"  continued  the 
crafty  Protheroe. 

"That's  all  you  know,"  said  the  foreman,  first 
glancing  back  to  see  if  Mr.  Licquorish's  door  was 
shut.  "  Mr.  George  Frederick  has  told  me  all 
about  him ;  he's  a  Scotsman  called  Angus  that's 
never  been  out  of  his  native  county." 

"  He's  one  of  those  compositors  taken  to  litera- 
ture, is  he  ■?  "  asked  Umbrage,  who  by  literature 
meant  reporting,  pausing  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence 
he  was  transcribing  from  his  note-book.  "  Just  as 
I  expected,"  he  added,  contemptuously. 

"  No,"  said  the  foreman,  thawing  in  the  rays  of 
such  ignorance ;  "  Mr.  George  Frederick  says  he's 
never  been  on  a  newspaper  before." 

"  An  outsider  I  "  cried  Umbrage,  in  the  voice  with 
which  outsiders  themselves  would  speak  of  reptiles. 
"  They  are  the  ruin  of  the  profession,  they  are." 

"  He'll  make  you  all  sit  up.  Mister,"  said  Penny, 
with  a  chuckle.  "  Mr.  George  Frederick  has  had 
his  eye  on  him  for  a  twelvemonth," 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  know  how  Mr.  George 
Frederick  fell  in  with  him  ?  "  said  the  sub-editor, 
basking  in  Penny's  geniality. 

39 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"Mr.  George  Frederick  told  me  everythink 
about  him  —  everythink,"  said  the  foreman, 
proudly.  "  It  was  a  parson  that  recommended 
him." 

"  A  parson  f "  ejaculated  Umbrage,  in  such  a 
tone  that  if  you  had  not  caught  the  word  you 
might  have  thought  he  was  saying  "  An  outsider  I " 
again. 

"  Yes,  a  parson  whose  sermon  this  Angus  took 
down  in  shorthand,  I  fancy." 

"  What  was  he  doing  taking  down  a  sermon?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  was  there  to  hear  it." 

"  And  this  is  the  kind  of  man  who  is  taking  to 
literature  nowadays !  "  Umbrage  cried. 

"O,  Mr.  George  Frederick  has  heard  a  great 
deal  about  aim,"  continued  Penny,  maliciously, 
"and  expects  him  to  do  wonders.  He's  a  self^ 
made  man." 

"  O,"  said  Umbrage,  who  could  find  nothing  to 
object  to  in  that,  having  risen  from  comparative 
obscurity  himself 

"  Mr.  George  Frederick,"  Penny  went  on,  "  of- 
fered him  a  berth  here  before  Billy  Tagg  was 
engaged,  but  he  couldn't  come." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Juvenal,  with  the  sarcasm 
that  made  him  terrible  on  Fridays,  "the  'Ernies  of- 
fered him  something  better,  or  was  it  the  Spectator 
that  wanted  an  editor  ?  " 

"  No,  it  was  family  matters.    His  mother  or  his 

4.0 


ROB  GOES  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD 

sister,  or — let  me  see,  it  was  his  sister's  child  — 
was  dependent  on  him,  and  could  not  be  left. 
Something  happened  to  her,  though.  She's  dead, 
I  think,  so  he's  a  free  man  now." 

"  Yes,  it  was  his  sister's  child,  and  she  was  found 
dead,"  said  the  sub-editor,  "on  a  mountain-side, 
curiously  enough,  with  George  Frederick's  letter 
in  her  hand  offering  Angus  the  appointment." 

Protheroe  was  foolish  to  admit  that  he  knew  this, 
for  it  was  news  to  the  foreman,  but  it  tries  a  man 
severely  to  have  to  listen  to  news  that  he  could  tell 
better  himself  One  immediate  result  of  the  sub- 
editor's rashness  was  that  Rob  Angus  sunk  several 
stages  in  Penny's  estimation. 

"  I  daresay  he'll  turn  out  a  muff,"  he  said,  and 
flung  out  of  the  room,  with  another  intimation  that 
the  copy  must  be  cut  down. 

The  evening  wore  on.  Protheroe  had  half  a 
dozen  things  to  do  at  once,  and  did  them. 

Telegraph  boys  were  dropping  the  beginning  of 
lord  John  Manners's  speech  through  a  grating  on 
to  the  sub-editorial  desk  long  before  he  had  reached 
the  end  of  it  at  Nottingham. 

The  sub-editor  had  to  revise  this  as  it  arrived  in 
flimsy,  and  write  a  summary  of  it  at  the  same  time. 
His  summary  was  set  before  all  the  speech  had 
reached  the  office,  which  may  seem  strange.  But 
when  Penny  cried  aloud  for  summary,  so  that  he 
might  get  that  column  off  his  hands,  Protheroe 

41 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

made  guesses  iit  many  things,  and,  risking,  "the 
right  hon.  gentleman  concluded  his  speech,  which 
was  attentively  listened  to,  with  some  further  refer- 
ences to  current  topics,"  flung  Lord  John  to  the 
boy,  who  rushed  with  him  to  Penny,  from  whose 
hand  he  was  snatched  by  a  compositor.  Fifteen 
minutes  afterwards  L.ord  John  concluded  his  speech 
at  Nottingham. 

About  half-past  nine  Protheroe  seized  his  hat 
and  rushed  home  for  supper.  In  the  passage  he 
nearly  knocked  himself  over  by  running  against 
the  young  man  in  the  heavy  top-coat.  Umbrage 
went  out  to  see  if  he  could  gather  any  information 
about  a  prize-fight.  John  Milton  came  in  with  a 
notice  of  a  concert,  which  he  stuck  conspicuously 
on  the  chief  reporter's  file.  When  the  chief  re- 
porter came  in,  he  glanced  through  it  and  made  a 
few  alterations,  changing  "  Mr.  Joseph  Grimes  sang 
out  of  tune,"  for  instance,  to  "  Mr.  Grimes,  the  fa- 
vourite vocalist,  was  in  excellent  voice."  The  con- 
cert was  not  quite  over  yet,  either ;  they  seldom 
waited  for  the  end  of  anything  on  the  Mirror. 

When  Umbrage  returned,  Billy  Kirker,  the 
chief  reporter,  was  denouncing  John  Milton  for 
not  being  able  to  tell  him  how  to  spell  "  deceive." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  you  *?  "  he  asked,  indig- 
nantly, "  if  you  can't  do  a  simple  thing  like  that  ?  " 

"Say  'cheat',"  suggested  Umbrage. 

So  Kirker  wrote  "  cheat."     Though  he  was  the 

42 


ROB   GOES   OUT   INTO   THE   WORLD 

chief  of  the  Mirror's  reporting  department,  he  had 
only  Umbrage  and  John  Milton  at  present  under 
him. 

As  Kirker  sat  in  the  reporters'  room  looking 
over  his  diary,  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  he 
was  an  advertisement  for  the  Mirror,  and  if  he  paid 
for  his  velvet  coat  out  of  his  sr 'ary,  the  paper  was 
in  a  healthy  financial  condition.  He  was  tall, 
twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  extremely  slight. 
His  manner  was  languid,  though  his  language 
was  sometimes  forcible,  but  those  who  knew  him 
did  not  think  him  mild.  This  evening  his  fingers 
looked  bare  without  the  diamond  ring  that  some- 
times adorned  them.  This  ring,  it  was  noticed, 
generally  disappeared  about  the  middle  of  the 
month,  and  his  scarf-pin  followed  it  by  the  twenty- 
first.  With  the  beginning  of  the  month  they  re- 
appeared together.  The  literary  staff  was  paid 
monthly. 

Mr.  Licquorish  looked  in  at  the  door  of  the 
reporters'  room  to  ask  pleasantly  if  they  would  not 
like  a  fire.  Had  Protheroe  been  there  he  would 
have  said  "  No  " ;  but  Billy  Kirker  said  "  Yes." 
Mr.  Licquorish  had  thought  that  Protheroe  was 
there. 

This  was  the  first  fire  in  the  reporters'  room  that 
season,  and  it  smoked.  Kirker,  left  alone,  flung  up 
the  window,  and  gradually  became  aware  that 
some  one  with  a  heavy  tread  was  walking  up  and 

43 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

down  the  alley.  He  whistled  gently  in  case  it 
should  be  a  friend  of  his  own,  but,  getting  no  re- 
sponse, resumed  his  work.  Mr.  Licquorish  also 
heard  the  footsteps,  but  though  he  was  waiting 
for  the  new  reporter,  he  did  not  connect  him  with 
the  man  outside. 

Rob  had  stopped  at  the  door  a  score  of  times, 
and  then  turned  away.  He  had  arrived  at  Sil- 
chester  in  the  afternoon,  and  come  straight  to  the 
Mirror  office  to  look  at  it.  Then  he  had  set  out 
in  quest  of  lodgings,  and,  having  got  them,  had 
returned  to  the  passage.  He  was  not  naturally  a 
man  crushed  by  a  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness, 
but,  looking  up  at  these  windows  and  at  the  sha- 
dows that  passed  them  every  moment,  he  felt  far 
away  from  his  saw-mill.  What  a  romance  to  him, 
too,  was  in  the  glare  of  the  gas  and  in  the  Mirror 
bill  that  was  being  reduced  to  pulp  on  the  wall  at 
the  mouth  of  the  close  I  It  had  begun  to  rain 
heavily,  but  he  did  not  feel  the  want  of  an  um- 
brella, never  having  possessed  one  in  Thrums. 

Fighting  down  the  emotions  that  had  mastered 
him  so  often,  he  turned  once  more  to  the  door, 
and  as  he  knocked  more  loudly  than  formerly,  a 
compositor  came  out,  who  told  him  what  to  do  if 
he  was  there  on  business. 

"  Go  upstairs,"  he  said,  "  till  you  come  to  a  door, 
and  then  kick." 

Rob  did  not  have  to  kick,  however,  for  he  met 

44 


ROB  GOES  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD 

Mr.  Licquorish  coming  downstairs,  and  both  half 
stopped. 

'•  Not  Mr.  Angus,  is  it  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Licquorish. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  new  reporter,  the  monosyllable 
also  telling  that  he  was  a  Scotsman,  and  that  he 
did  not  feel  comfortable. 

Mr.  Licquorish  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand, 
and  took  him  into  the  editor's  room.  Rob  sat  in  a 
chair  there  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  while  his  new 
employer  spoke  kindly  to  him  about  the  work  that 
would  begin  on  the  morrow. 

"  You  will  find  it  a  little  strange  at  first,"  he 
said ;  "  but  Mr.  Kirker,  the  head  of  our  reporting 
staff,  has  been  instructed  to  explain  the  routine 
of  the  office  to  you,  and  I  have  no  doubt  we  shall 
work  well  together." 

Rob  said  he  meant  to  do  his  best. 

"  It  is  our  desire,  Mr.  Angus,"  continued  Mr. 
Licquorish,  "  to  place  every  facility  before  our  staff, 
and  if  you  have  suggestions  to  make  at  any  time 
on  any  matter  connected  with  your  work  we  shall 
be  most  happy  to  consider  them  and  to  meet  you 
in  a  cordial  spirit." 

While  Rob  was  thanking  Mr.  Licquorish  for  his 
consideration,  Kirkei;  in  the  next  room  was  won- 
dering whether  the  new  reporter  was  to  have  halt 
a  crown  a  week  less  than  his  predecessor,  who  had 
begun  with  six  pounds  a  month. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  us,"  Mr.  Licquorish  concluded, 

4^ 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

referring  to  the  novelist,  "  to  know  that  we  have 
sent  out  from  this  office  a  number  of  men  who 
subsequently  took  a  high  place  in  literature.  Per- 
haps our  system  of  encouraging  talent  by  fostering 
it  has  had  something  to  do  with  this,  for  we  like  to 
give  every  one  his  opportunity  to  rise.  I  hope  the 
day  will  come,  Mr.  Angus,  when  we  shall  be  able 
to  recall  with  pride  the  fact  that  you  began  your 
literary  career  on  the  Mirror^ 

Rob  said  he  hoped  so  too.  He  had,  indeed, 
very  little  doubt  of  it.  At  this  period  of  his  career 
it  made  him  turn  white  to  think  that  he  might  not 
yet  be  famous. 

"But  I  must  not  keep  you  here  any  longer," 
said  the  editor,  rising,  "  for  you  have  had  a  weary 
journey,  and  must  be  feeling  tired.  We  shall  see 
you  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  ?  " 

Once  more  Rob  and  his  employer  shook  hands 
heartily. 

"  But  i  might  introduce  you,"  said  Mr.  Licquor- 
ish,  "  to  the  reporting-room.  Mr.  Kirker,  our  chief, 
is,  I  think,  here." 

Rob  had  begun  to  descend  the  stairs,  but  he 
turned  back.  He  was  not  certain  what  you  did 
when  you  were  introduced  to  any  one,  such  for- 
malities being  unknown  in  Thrums ;  but  he  held 
himself  in  reserve  to  do  as  the  other  did. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Kirker,"  said  the  editor,  pushing  open 
the  door  of  the  reporting-room  with  his  foot,  "  this 

46 


ROB  GOES  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD 

is  Mr.  Angus,  who  has  just  joined  our  literary 
staff." 

Nodding  genially  to  both,  Mr.  Licquorish  darted 
out  of  the  room  ;  but  before  the  door  had  finished 
its  swing,  Mr.  Kirker  was  aware  that  the  new 
reporter's  nails  had  a  rim  of  black. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  George  Frederick  *?  " 
asked  the  chief,  after  he  had  pointed  out  to  Rob 
the  only  chair  that  such  a  stalwart  reporter  might 
safely  sit  on. 

"  He  was  very  pleasant,"  said  Rob. 

"  Yes,"  said  Billy  Kirker,  thoughtfully,  "  there's 
nothing  George  Frederick  wouldn't  do  for  any  one 
If  it  could  be  done  gratis." 

"And  he  struck  me  as  an  enterprising  sort  of 
man." 

" '  Enterprise  without  outlay,'  is  the  motto  of 
this  ofRce,"  said  the  chief 

"  But  the  paper  seems  to  be  well  conductea," 
said  Rob,  a  little  crestfallen. 

"  The  worst  conducted  in  England,"  said  Kirker, 
cheerfully. 

Rob  asked  how  the  Mirror  compared  with  the 
Argys. 

"  They  have  six  reporters  to  our  three,"  said 
Kirker,  "but  we  do  double  work  and  beat  them." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  a  great  deal  of  rivalry  be- 
tween the  staffs  of  the  two  papers  *?  "  Rob  asked, 
for  he  had  read  of  such  things. 

47 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"Oh  no,"  said  Kirker,  "we  help  each  other. 
For  instance,  if  Daddy  Walsh,  the  Argus  chief,  is 
drunk,  I  help  him ;  and  if  I'm  drunk,  he  helps  me. 
I'm  going  down  to  the  Frying  Pan  to  see  him  now." 

"  The  Frying  Pan  ?  "  echoed  Rob. 

"  It's  a  literary  club,"  Kirker  explained,  "  and 
very  exclusive.  If  you  come  with  me  I'll  intro- 
duce you." 

Rob  was  somewhat  taken  aback  at  what  he  had 
heard,  but  he  wanted  to  be  on  good  terms  with  his 
fellow-workers. 

"  Not  to-night,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I'd  better  be 
getting  home  now." 

Kirker  lit  another  cigarette,  and  saying  he  would 
expect  Rob  at  the  office  next  morning,  strolled  otf. 
The  new  reporter  was  undecided  whether  to  fol- 
low him  at  once,  or  to  wait  for  Mr.  Licquorish's 
reappearance.  He  was  looking  round  the  office 
curiously,  when  the  door  opened  and  Kirker  put 
his  head  in. 

"  By  the  by,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "  could  you  lend 
me  five  bob  *?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  new  reporter. 

He  had  to  undo  the  string  of  his  money-bag, 
but  the  chief  was  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  smile. 

"  Thanks,  old  man,"  Kirker  said,  carelessly,  and 
again  withdrew. 

The  door  of  the  editor's  room  was  open  as  Rob 
passed. 

48 


ROB   GOES   OUT   INTO   THE   WORLD 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish,  "  here 
are  a  number  of  books  for  review ;  you  might  do  a 
short  notice  of  some  of  them." 

He  handed  Rob  the  two  works  that  happened 
to  lie  uppermost,  and  the  new  reporter  slipped 
them  into  his  pockets  with  a  certain  elation.  The 
night  was  dark  and  wet,  but  he  lit  his  pipe  and 
hurried  up  the  muddy  streets  to  the  single  room 
that  was  now  his  home.  Probably  his  were  the 
only  lodgings  in  his  street  that  had  not  the  por- 
trait of  a  young  lady  on  the  mantelpiece.  On  his 
way  he  passed  three  noisy  young  men.  They  were 
Kirker  and  two  reporters  on  the  Argus  trying 
which  could  fling  his  hat  highest  in  the  rain. 

Sitting  in  his  lonely  room  Rob  examined  his 
books  with  interest.  One  of  them  was  Tennyson's 
new  volume  of  poems,  and  a  month  afterwards  the 
poet  laureate's  publishers  made  Rob  march  up  the 
streets  of  Silchester  with  his  chest  well  forward  by 
advertising  "  The  Silchester  Mirror  says,  '  This  ad- 
mirable volume.' "  After  all,  the  great  delight 
of  being  on  the  press  is  that  you  can  patronize  the 
Tennysons.  Doubtless  the  poet  laureate  got  a 
marked  copy  of  Rob's  first  review  forwarded  him, 
and  had  an  anxious  moment  till  he  saw  that  it  was 
favourable.  There  had  been  a  time  when  even 
John  Milton  felt  a  thrill  pass  through  him  as  he 
saw  Messrs.  Besant  and  Rice  boasting  that  he 
thought  their  "  Chaplain  of  the  Fleet "  a  novel  of 

49 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

sustained  interest,  "  which  we  have  read  without 
fatigue." 

Rob  sat  over  his  empty  grate  far  on  into  the 
night,  his  mind  in  a  jumble.  As  he  grew  more 
composed  the  Mirror  and  its  staff  sank  out  of 
sight,  and  he  was  carrying  a  dead  child  in  his 
arms  along  the  leafy  Whunny  road.  His  mouth 
twitched,  and  his  head  drooped.  He  was  prepar- 
ing to  go  to  bed  when  he  sat  down  again  to  look 
at  the  other  book.  It  was  a  novel  by  "  M."  in  one 
thin  volume,  and  Rob  thought  the  title,  "  The 
Scorn  of  Scorns,"  foolish.  He  meant  to  write  an 
honest  criticism  of  it,  but  never  having  reviewed 
a  book  before,  he  rather  hoped  that  this  would  be 
a  poor  one,  which  he  could  condemn  brilliantly. 
Poor  Rob  I  he  came  to  think  more  of  that  book 
by  and  by. 

At  last  Rob  wound  up  the  big  watch  that  neigh- 
bours had  come  to  gaze  at  when  his  father  bought 
it  of  a  pedlar  forty  years  before,  and  took  off  the 
old  silver  chain  that  he  wore  round  his  neck.  He 
went  down  on  his  knees  to  say  his  prayers,  and 
then,  remembering  that  he  had  said  them  already, 
rose  up  and  went  to  bed. 


50 


CHAPTER   IV 

««THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS" 

St.  Leonard's  Lodge  is  the  residence  of  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Meredith,  an  ex-mayor  of  Silchester,  and 
stands  in  the  fashionable  suburb  of  the  town. 
There  was  at  one  time  considerable  intercourse 
between  this  house  and  Dome  Castle,  the  seat  of 
Colonel  Abinger,  though  they  are  five  miles  apart 
and  in  different  counties ;  and  one  day,  after  Rob 
had  been  on  the  press  for  a  few  months,  two  boys 
set  out  from  the  castle  to  show  themselves  to  Nell 
Meredith.  They  could  have  reached  the  high-road 
by  a  private  walk  between  a  beach  and  an  ivy 
hedge,  but  they  preferred  to  climb  down  a  steep 
path  to  the  wild  running  Dome.  The  advantage 
of  this  route  was  that  they  risked  their  necks  by 
taking  it. 

Nell,  who  did  not  expect  visitors,  was  sitting  by 
the  fire  in  her  boudoir  dreaming.  It  was  the 
room  in  which  she  and  Mary  Abinger  had  often 
discussed  such  great  questions  as  Woman,  her 
Aims,  her  Influence;  Man,  his  Instability,  his 
Weakness,  his  Degeneration;  the  Poor,  how  are 

51 


WHEN   A    MAN'S   SINGLE 

we  to  Help  tlicni ;  why  Lady  Lucy  Gilding  wears 
i^ink  when  Blue  is  obviously  her  Colour. 

Nell  was  tucked  away  into  a  soft  armchair,  in 
which  her  father  never  saw  her  without  wondering 
that  such  a  little  thing  should  require  eighteen  yards 
for  a  dress. 

"  I'm  not  so  little,"  she  would  say  on  these  occa- 
sions, and  then  Mr.  Meredith  chuckled,  for  he  knew 
that  there  were  young  men  who  considered  his  Nell 
tall  and  terrible.  He  liked  to  watch  her  sweeping 
through  a  room.  To  him  the  boudoir  was  a  sea  of 
reefs.  Nell's  dignity  when  she  was  introduced  to 
a  young  gentleman  was  another  thing  her  father 
could  never  look  upon  without  awe,  but  he  also 
noticed  that  it  soon  wore  off. 

On  the  mantelpiece  lay  a  comb  and  several  hair- 
pins. There  are  few  more  mysterious  things  than 
hair-pins.  So  far  back  as  we  can  go  into  the  past 
we  see  woman  putting  up  her  hair.  It  is  said  that 
married  men  lose  their  awe  of  hair-pins  and  clean 
their  pipes  with  them. 

A  pair  of  curling-tongs  had  a  chair  to  themselves 
near  Nell,  and  she  wore  a  short  blue  dressing-jacket. 
Probably  when  she  woke  from  her  reverie  she  meant 
to  do  something  to  her  brown  hair.  When  old 
gentlemen  called  at  the  lodge  they  frequently  told 
their  host  that  he  had  a  very  pretty  daughter ;  when 
younger  gentlemen  called  they  generally  called 
again,  and  if  Nell  thought  they  admired  her  the 

52 


"THE   SCORN   OF   SCORNS" 

first  time,  she  spared  no  pains  to  make  them  ad- 
mire her  still  more  the  next  time.  This  was  to 
make  them  respect  their  own  judgment. 

It  was  little  Will  Abinger  who  had  set  Nell 
a-dreaming,  for  from  wondering  if  he  was  home  yet 
for  the  Christmas  holidays  her  thoughts  wandered 
to  his  sister  Mary,  and  then  to  his  brother  Dick. 
She  thought  longer  of  Dick  in  his  lonely  London 
chambers  than  of  the  others,  and  by  and  by  she 
was  saying  to  herself  petulantly,  "  I  wish  people 
wouldn't  go  dying  and  leaving  me  money."  Mr. 
Meredith,  and  still  more  Mrs.  Meredith,  thought 
that  their  only  daughter,  an  heiress,  would  be 
thrown  away  on  Richard  Abinger,  barrister-at-law, 
whose  blood  was  much  bluer  than  theirs,  but  who 
was,  nevertheless,  understood  to  be  as  hard  up  as 
his  father. 

The  door-bell  rang,  and  two  callers  were  ushered 
into  the  drawing-room  without  Nell's  knowing  it. 
One  of  them  left  his  companion  to  talk  to  Mrs. 
Meredith,  and  clattered  upstairs  in  search  of  the 
daughter  of  the  house.  He  was  a  bright-faced  boy 
of  thirteen,  with  a  passion  for  flinging  stones,  and, 
of  late,  he  had  worn  his  head  in  the  air,  not  because 
he  was  conceited,  but  that  he  might  look  with  ad- 
miration upon  the  face  of  the  young  gentleman 
downstairs. 

Bouncing  into  the  parlour,  he  caught  sight  of  the 
object  of  his  search  before  she  could  turn  her  head. 

53 


WHEN    A    MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  I  say,  Nell,  I'm  back." 

Miss  Meredith  jumped  from  her  chair. 

"  Will  !  "  she  cried. 

When  the  visitor  saw  this  young  lady  coming 
toward  him  quickly,  he  knew  what  she  was  after,  and 
tried  to  get  out  of  her  way.    But  Nell  kissed  him. 

"  Now,  then,"  he  said,  indignantly,  pushing  her 
from  him. 

Will  looked  round  him  fearfully,  and  then  closed 
the  door. 

"  You  might  have  waited  till  the  door  was  shut, 
at  any  rate,"  he  grumbled.  "  It  would  have  been 
a  nice  thing  if  any  one  had  seen  you  I " 

"  Why,  what  would  it  have  mattered,  you  horrid 
little  boy  !  "  said  Nell. 

"  Little  boy  I  I'm  bigger  than  you,  at  any  rate. 
As  tor  its  not  mattering  —  but  you  don't  know 
who  is  downstairs.     The  captain  —  " 

"  Captain  I  "  cried  Nell. 

She  seized  her  curling-tongs. 

"  Yes,"  said  Will,  watching  the  effect  of  his 
words,  "  Greybrooke,  the  captain  of  the  school. 
He  is  giving  me  a  week  just  now." 

Will  said  this  as  proudly  as  if  his  guest  was 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  but  Nell  laid  down  her  curl- 
ing-irons. The  intruder  interpreted  her  action  and 
resented  it. 

"  You're  not  his  style,"  he  said ;  "  he  likes  bigger 


women." 


54 


"THE   SCORN   OF   SCORNS" 

"  Oh,  does  he  ?  "  said  Nell,  screwing  up  her 
little  Greek  nose  contemptuously. 

"  He's  eighteen,"  said  Will. 

*'  A  mere  schoolboy." 

"  Why,  he  shaves." 

"  Doesn't  the  master  whip  him  for  that  ?  " 

"What?  Whip  Greybrookel  " 

Will  laughed  hysterically. 

"  You  should  just  see  him  at  breakfast  with  old 
Jerry.  Why,  I've  seen  him  myself,  when  half  a 
dozen  of  us  were  asked  to  tea  by  Mrs.  Jerry,  and 
though  we  were  frightened  to  open  our  mouths, 
what  do  you  think  Greybrooke  did  ?  " 

"  Something  silly,  I  should  say." 

"  He  asked  old  Jerry,  as  cool  as  you  like,  to 
pass  the  butter  I  That's  the  sort  of  fellow  Grey- 
brooke is." 

"  How  is  Mary  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right.  No,  she  has  a  headache. 
I  say,  Greybrooke  says  Mary's  rather  slow." 

"  He  must  be  a  horror,"  said  Nell,  "  and  I  don't 
see  why  you  brought  him  here." 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  to  see  him,"  ex- 
plained Will.  "  He  made  a  hundred  and  three 
against  Rugby,  and  was  only  bowled  off  his  pads." 

"  Well,"  said  Nell,  yawning,  "  I  suppose  I  must 
go  down  and  meet  your  prodigy." 

Will,  misunderstanding,  got  between  her  and 
the  door. 

5S 


WHEN   A   MANS   SINGLE 

"You're  not  going  down  like  that,"  he  said, 
anxiously,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  that  included 
the  dressing-jacket  and  the  untidy  hair.  "  Grey- 
brooke's  so  particular,  and  I  told  him  you  were  a 
jolly  girl." 

"  What  else  did  you  tell  him  *?  "  asked  Nell, 
suspiciously. 

"Not  much,"  said  Will,  with  a  guilty  look. 

"  I  know  you  told  him  something  else  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  you  —  you  were  fond  of  kissing 
people." 

"  Oh,  you  nasty  boy.  Will — as  if  kissing  a  child 
like  you  counted  !  " 

"Never  mind,"  said  Will,  soothingly,  "Grey- 
brooke's  not  the  fellow  to  tell  tales.  Besides,  I 
know  you  girls  can't  help  it.  Mary's  just  the 
same." 

"  You  are  a  goose,  Will,  and  the  day  will  come 
when  you'll  give  anything  for  a  kiss." 

"  You've  no  right  to  bring  such  charges  against  a 
fellow,"  said  Will,  indignantly,  strutting  to  the  door. 

Half-way  downstairs  he  turned  and  came  back. 

"  I  say,  Nell,"  he  said,  "  You  —  you,  when  you 
come  down,  you  won't  kiss  Greybrooke  *?  " 

Nell  drew  herself  up  in  a  way  that  would  have 
scared  any  young  man  but  Will. 

"  He's  so  awfully  particular,"  Will  continued, 
apologetically. 

"  Was  it  to  tell  me  this  you  came  upstairs  ?  " 

56 


"THE   SCORN   OF   SCORNS" 

"  No,  honour  bright,  it  wasn't.  I  only  came  up 
in  case  you  should  want  to  kiss  me,  and  to  —  to 
have  it  over." 

Nell  was  standing  near  Will,  and  before  he 
could  jump  back  she  slapped  his  face. 

The  snow  was  dancing  outside  in  a  light  wind 
when  Nell  sailed  into  the  drawing-room.  She 
could  probably  still  inform  you  how  she  was 
dressed,  but  that  evening  Will  and  the  captain 
could  not  tell  Mary.  The  captain  thought  it  was 
a  reddish  dress  or  else  blue ;  but  it  was  all  in 
squares  like  a  draught-board,  according  to  Will. 
Forty  minutes  had  elapsed  since  Will  visited  her 
upstairs,  and  now  he  smiled  at  the  conceit  which 
made  her  think  that  the  captain  would  succumb  to 
a  pretty  frock.  Of  course  Nell  had  no  such  thought. 
She  always  dressed  carefully  because  —  well,  be- 
cause there  is  never  any  saying. 

Though  Miss  Meredith  froze  Greybrooke  with 
a  glance,  he  was  relieved  to  see  her.  Her  mother 
had  discovered  that  she  knew  the  lady  who  married 
his  brother,  and  had  asked  questions  about  the 
baby.  He  did  not  like  it.  These,  he  thought, 
were  things  you  should  pretend  not  to  know  about. 
He  had  contrived  to  keep  his  nieces  and  nephews 
dark  from  the  fellows  at  school,  though  most  of 
them  would  have  been  too  just  to  attach  any  blame 
to  him.  Of  this  baby  he  was  specially  ashamed, 
because  they  had  called  it  after  him. 

57 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  a  small,  stout  lady,  of  whose 
cleverness  her  husband  spoke  proudly  to  Nell,  but 
never  to  herself.  When  Nell  told  her  how  he  had 
talked,  she  exclaimed,  "  Nonsense ! "  and  then 
waited  to  hear  what  else  he  had  said.  She  loved 
him,  but  probably  no  woman  can  live  with  a  man 
for  many  years  without  having  an  indulgent  con- 
tempt for  him,  and  wondering  how  he  is  considered 
a  good  man  of  business.  Mrs.  Meredith,  who  was 
a  terribly  active  woman,  was  glad  to  leave  the 
entertainment  of  her  visitors  to  Nell,  and  that 
young  lady  began  severely  by  asking  "  how  you 
boys  mean  to  amuse  yourselves  ?  " 

"  Do  you  keep  rabbits  ?  "  she  said  to  the  captain, 
sweetly. 

"  I  say,  Nell  I  "  cried  Will,  warningly. 

"  I  have  not  kept  rabbits,"  Greybrooke  replied, 
with  simple  dignity,  "  since  I  was  a  boy." 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Will,  "  that  Greybrooke  was 
old  —  why,  he's  nearly  as  old  as  yourself  She's 
older  than  she  looks,  you  know,  Greybrooke." 

The  captain  was  gazing  at  Nell  with  intense 
admiration.  As  she  raised  her  head  indignantly 
he  thought  she  was  looking  to  him  for  protection. 
That  was  a  way  Nell  had. 

"  Abinger,"  said  the  captain,  sternly,  "  shut  up." 

"  Don't  mind  him,  Miss  Meredith,"he  continued; 
"he  doesn't  understand  girls." 

To  think  he  understands  girls  is  the  last  affront 

58 


"THE   SCORN   OF  SCORNS" 

a  youth  pays  them.  When  he  ceases  trying  to  re- 
duce them  to  fixed  principles  he  has  come  of  age. 
Nell,  knowing  this,  felt  sorry  for  Greybrooke,  for 
she  foresaw  what  he  would  have  to  go  through. 
Her  manner  to  him  underwent  such  a  change  that 
he  began  to  have  a  high  opinion  of  himself.  This 
is  often  called  falling  in  love.  Will  was  satisfied 
that  his  friend  impressed  Nell,  and  he  admired 
Greybrooke's  politeness  to  a  chit  of  a  girl,  but  he 
became  restless.  His  eyes  wandered  to  the  piano, 
and  he  had  a  lurking  fear  that  Nell  would  play 
something.     He  signed  to  the  captain  to  get  up. 

"  We'll  have  to  be  going  now,"  he  said  at  last ; 
"  good-bye." 

Greybrooke  glared  at  Will,  forgetting  that  they 
had  arranged  beforehand  to  stay  as  short  a  time 
as  possible. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  other  calls  to  make  *?  "  said 
Nell,  who  had  no  desire  to  keep  them  there  longer 
than  they  cared  to  stay. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Will. 

"No,"  said  the  captain,  "  we  only  came  into  Sil- 
chester  with  Miss  Abinger's  message  for  you." 

"  Why,  Will,"  exclaimed  Nell,  "  you  never 
gave  me  any  message  ?  " 

"  I  forgot  what  it  was,"  Will  explained,  cheerily; 
"  something  about  a  ribbon,  I  think." 

"  I  did  not  hear  the  message  given,"  the  captain 
said,  in  answer  to  Nell's  look,  "  but  Miss  Abinger 

59 


WHEN   A   MAN  S   SINGLE 

had  a  headache,  and  I  think  Will  said  it  had  to 
do  with  that." 

"  Oh,  wait  a  bit,"  said  Will,  "  I  remember  some- 
thing about  it  now.  Mary  saw  something  in  a 
Silchester  paper,  the  Mirror^  I  think,  that  made 
her  cry,  and  she  thinks  that  if  you  saw  it  you 
would  cry  too.     So  she  wants  you  to  look  at  it." 

"  The  idea  of  Mary's  crying  I  "  said  Nell,  indig- 
nantly.    "  But  did  she  not  give  you  a  note  ?  " 

"  She  was  too  much  upset,"  said  Will,  signing 
to  the  captain  not  to  let  on  that  they  had  refused 
to  wait  for  the  note. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  can  be,"  murmured  Nell. 

She  hurried  from  the  room  to  her  father's  den, 
and  found  him  there  surrounded  by  newspapers. 

"  Is  there  anything  in  the  Mirror^  father  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Meredith,  who  had  made 
the  same  answer  to  this  question  many  hundreds 
of  times,  "nothing  except  depression  in  the  boot 
trade." 

"  It  can't  be  that,"  said  Nell. 

"Can't  be  what?" 

"  Oh,  give  me  the  paper,"  cried  the  ex-mayor's 
daughter,  impatiently. 

She  looked  hastily  up  and  down  it,  with  an  in- 
voluntary glance  at  the  births,  deaths,  and  mar- 
riages, turned  it  inside  out  and  outside  in,  and  then 
exclaimed,  "  Oh  I  "     Mr.  Meredith,  who  was  too 

60 


"THE   SCORN   OF   SCORNS" 

much  accustomed  to  his  daughter's  impulses  to 
think  that  there  was  much  wrong,  hstened  pa- 
tiently while  she  ejaculated,  "  Horrid  I "  "  What  a 
shame  I  "  "  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  a  man  I  "  and,  "  Well, 
I  can't  understand  it."  When  she  tossed  the 
paper  to  the  floor,  her  face  was  red  and  her  body 
trembled  with  excitement. 

"  What  is  it,  Nelly  *?  "  asked  her  father. 

Whether  Miss  Abinger  cried  over  the  Mirror 
that  day  is  not  to  be  known,  but  there  were  indig- 
nant tears  in  Nell's  eyes  as  she  ran  upstairs  to  her 
bedroom.  Mr.  Meredith  took  up  the  paper  and 
examined  it  carefully  at  the  place  where  his 
daughter  had  torn  it  in  her  anger.  What  troubled 
her  seemed  to  be  something  in  the  book  notices, 
and  he  concluded  that  it  must  be  a  cruel  "  slating  " 
of  a  novel  in  one  volume  called  "  The  Scorn  of 
Scorns."  Mr.  Meredith  remembered  that  Nell  had 
compelled  him  to  read  that  book  and  to  say  that 
he  liked  it. 

"  That's  all,"  he  said  to  himself,  much  relieved. 

He  fancied  that  Nell,  being  a  girl,  was  distressed 
to  see  a  book  she  liked  called  "the  sentimental 
outpourings  of  some  silly  girl  who  ought  to  confine 
her  writing  to  copy-books."  In  a  woman  so  much 
excitement  over  nothing  seemed  quite  a  natural 
thing  to  Mr.  Meredith.  The  sex  had  ceased  to 
surprise  him.  Having  retired  from  business,  Mr. 
Meredith  now  did  things  slowly  as  a  good  way  of 

61 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

passing  the  time.  He  had  risen  to  wealth  from 
penury,  and  counted  time  by  his  dining-room 
chairs,  having  passed  through  a  cane,  a  horsehair, 
and  a  leather  period  before  arriving  at  morocco. 
Mrs.  Meredith  counted  time  by  the  death  of  her 
only  son. 

It  may  be  presumed  that  Nell  would  not  have 
locked  herself  into  her  bedroom  and  cried  and 
stamped  her  feet  on  an  imaginary  critic  had  "  The 
Scorn  of  Scorns  "  not  interested  her  more  than  her 
father  thought.  She  sat  down  to  write  a  note  to 
Mary.  Then  she  tore  it  up,  and  wrote  a  letter  to 
Mary's  elder  brother,  beginning  with  the  envelope. 
She  tore  this  up  also,  as  another  idea  came  into 
her  head.  She  nodded  several  times  to  herself 
ov^r  this  idea,  as  a  sign  that  the  more  she  thought 
of  it  the  more  she  liked  it.  Then,  after  very  nearly 
forgetting  to  touch  her  eyes  with  something  that 
made  them  look  less  red,  she  returned  to  the 
drawing-room. 

"Will,"  she  said,  "have  you  seen  the  new 
ponies  papa  gave  me  on  my  birthday?" 

Will  leapt  to  his  feet. 

"  Come  on,  Greybrooke,"  he  cried,  making  for 
the  door. 

The  captain  hesitated. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Nell,  with  a  glance  at  him, 
"  Mr.  Greybrooke  does  not  have  much  interest  in 
horses  ?  " 

62 


"THE   SCORN   OF   SCORNS" 

"  Doesn't  he,  just,"  said  Will ;  "  why  —  " 

"  No,"  said  Greybrooke ;  "  but  I'll  wait  here  for 
you,  Abinger." 

Will  was  staggered.  For  a  moment  the  horrible 
thought  passed  through  his  mind  that  these  girls  had 
got  hold  of  the  captain.     Then  he  remembered. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said,  "  Nell  won't  mind." 

But  Greybrooke  had  a  delicious  notion  that  the 
young  lady  wanted  to  see  him  by  himself,  and 
Will  had  to  go  to  the  stables  alone. 

"  I  won't  be  long,"  he  said  to  Greybrooke,  apolo- 
gizing for  leaving  him  alone  with  a  girl.  "  Don't 
bother  him  too  much,"  he  whispered  to  Nell  at 
the  door. 

As  soon  as  Will  had  disappeared  Nell  turned  to 
Greybrooke. 

"  Mr.  Greybrooke,"  she  said,  speaking  rapidly, 
in  a  voice  so  low  that  it  was  a  compliment  to  him 
in  itself,  "  there  is  something  I  should  like  you  to 
do  for  me." 

The  captain  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  you,"  he 
stammered. 

"  I  want  you,"  continued  Miss  Meredith,  with  a 
most  vindictive  look  on  her  face,  "  to  find  out  for 
me  who  wrote  a  book  review  in  to-day's  Mirror^ 
and  to  —  to  —  oh,  to  thrash  him." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  captain,  rising  and  looking 
for  his  hat. 

63 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Nell,  glancing  at  him 
admiringly.  "  The  book  is  called  '  The  Scorn  of 
Scorns,'  and  it  is  written  by  —  by  a  friend  of  mine. 
In  to-day's  Mirror  it  is  called  the  most  horrid 
names,  sickly  sentimental,  not  even  grammatical, 
and  all  that." 

"  The  cads  I  "  cried  Greybrooke. 

"  But  the  horribly  mean  wicked  thing  about  it," 
continued  Nell,  becoming  more  and  more  indig- 
nant as  she  told  her  story,  "  is  that  not  two  months 
ago  there  was  a  review  of  the  book  in  the  same 
paper,  which  said  it  was  the  most  pathetic  and 
thoughtful  and  clever  tale  that  had  ever  been  pub- 
lished by  an  anonymous  author  !  " 

"  It's  the  lowest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  said 
Greybrooke,  "  but  these  newspaper  men  are  all  the 
same." 

"No,  they're  not,"  said  Nell,  sharply  (Richard 
Abinger,  Esq.'s,  only  visible  means  of  sustenance 
was  the  press),  "  but  they  are  dreadfully  mean,  con- 
temptible creatures  on  the  Mirror  — just  reporters, 
you  know." 

Greybrooke  nodded,  though  he  knew  nothing 
about  it. 

"The  first  review,"  Nell  continued,  "appeared  on 
the  3rd  of  October,  and  I  want  you  to  show  them 
both  to  the  editor,  and  insist  upon  knowing  the 
name  of  the  writer.  After  that  find  the  wretch 
out,  and  —  " 

64 


"THE   SCORN   OF   SCORNS" 

"And  lick  him,"  said  the  captain. 

His  face  frightened  Nell. 

"  You  won't  hit  him  very  hard  *? "  she  asked, 
apprehensively,  adding  as  an  afterthought,  "  Per- 
haps he  is  stronger  than  you." 

Greybrooke  felt  himself  in  an  unfortunate  posi- 
tion. He  could  not  boast  before  Nell,  but  he 
wished  very  keenly  that  Will  was  there  to  boast  for 
him.     Most  of  us  have  experienced  the  sensation. 

Nell  having  undertaken  to  keep  Will  employed 
until  the  captain's  return,  Greybrooke  set  off  for 
the  Mirror  office  with  a  look  of  determination  on 
his  face.  He  went  into  two  shops,  the  one  a  news- 
shop,  where  he  bought  a  copy  of  the  paper.  In 
the  other  he  asked  for  a  thick  stick,  having  remem- 
bered that  the  elegant  cane  he  carried  was  better 
fitted  for  swinging  in  the  air  than  for  breaking  a 
newspaper  man's  head.  He  tried  the  stick  on  a 
paling.  Greybrooke  felt  certain  that  Miss  Mere- 
dith was  the  novelist.  That  was  why  he  selected 
so  thick  a  weapon. 

He  marched  into  the  advertising  office,  and  de- 
manded to  see  the  editor  of  the  Mirror. 

"  'Stairs,"  said  a  clerk,  with  his  head  in  a  ledger. 
He  meant  upstairs,  and  the  squire  of  dames  took 
his  advice.  After  wandering  for  some  time  in  a 
labyrinth  of  dark  passages,  he  opened  the  door  of 
the  day  composing-room,  in  which  half  a  dozen 
silent  figures  were  bending  over  their  cases. 

f'5 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  I  want  the  editor,"  said  Greybrooke,  somewhat 
startled  by  the  sound  his  voice  made  in  the  great 
room. 

'"Stairs,"  said  one  of  the  figures,  meaning  down- 
stairs. 

Greybrooke,  remembering  who  had  sent  him 
here,  did  not  lose  heart.  He  knocked  at  several 
doors,  and  then  pushed  them  open.  All  the  rooms 
were  empty.     Then  he  heard  a  voice  saying  — 

"  Who  are  you  ?     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

Mr.  Licquorish  was  the  speaker,  and  he  had 
been  peering  at  the  intruder  for  some  time  through 
a  grating  in  his  door.  He  would  not  have  spoken 
at  all,  but  he  wanted  to  go  into  the  composing- 
room,  and  Greybrooke  was  in  the  passage  that  led 
to  it. 

"I  don't  see  you,"  said  the  captain;  "I  want 
the  editor." 

"  I  am  the  editor,"  said  the  voice,  "  but  I  can  see 
no  one  at  present  except  on  business." 

"  I  am  here  on  business,"  said  Greybrooke.  "  I 
want  to  thrash  one  of  your  staff." 

"  All  the  members  of  my  literary  staff  are  en- 
gaged at  present,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish,  in  a  plea- 
sant voice ;  "  which  one  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  want  the  low  cad  who  wrote  a  review  of  a  book 
called  '  The  Scorn  of  Scorns '  in  to-day's  paper." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Licquorish. 

"  I  demand  his  name,"  cried  Greybrooke. 

66 


"THE  SCORN   OF  SCORNS" 

The  editor  made  no  answer.  He  had  other 
things  to  do  than  to  quarrel  with  schoolboys.  As 
he  could  not  get  out  he  began  a  leaderette.  The 
visitor,  however,  had  discovered  the  editorial  door 
now,  and  was  shaking  it  violently. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  me '?  "  he  cried. 

Mr.  Licquorish  thought  for  a  moment  of  calling 
down  the  speaking-tube  which  communicated  with 
the  advertisement  office,  for  a  clerk  to  come  and 
take  this  youth  away,  but  after  all  he  was  good- 
natured.  He  finished  a  sentence,  and  then  opened 
the  door.  The  captain  strode  in,  but  refused  a 
chair. 

"  Are  you  the  author  of  the  book  ?  "  the  editor 
asked. 

"  No,"  said  Greybrooke,  "  but  I  am  her  friend, 
and  I  am  here  to  thrash  —  " 

Mr.  Licquorish  held  up  his  hand  to  stop  the  flow 
of  the  captain's  indignation.  He  could  never 
understand  why  the  public  got  so  excited  over 
triese  rittle  matters. 

"  She  is  a  Silchester  lady  ?  "  he  asked. 

Greybrooke  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  this. 
He  was  not  sure  whether  Nell  wanted  the  author- 
ship revealed. 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,"  he 
said.  "  I  want  the  name  of  the  writer  who  has 
libelled  her." 

"  On  the  press,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish,  repeating 

67 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

some  phrases  which  he  kept  for  such  an  occasion 
as  the  present,  "  we  have  a  duty  to  the  pubUc  to 
perform.  When  books  are  sent  us  for  review  we 
never  allow  prejudice  or  private  considerations  to 
warp  our  judgment.  The  Mirror  has  in  conse- 
quence a  reputation  for  honesty  that  some  papers 
do  not  possess.  Now  I  distinctly  remember  that 
this  book,  '  The  Vale  of  Tears '  —  " 

" '  The  Scorn  of  Scorns.' " 

"  I  mean  '  The  Scorn  of  Scorns,'  was  carefully 
considered  by  the  expert  to  whom  it  was  given 
for  review.  Being  honestly  of  opinion  that  the 
treatise  —  " 

"  It  is  a  novel." 

"  That  the  novel  is  worthless,  we  had  to  say  so. 
Had  it  been  clever,  we  should  —  " 

Mr.  Licquorish  paused,  reading  in  the  other's 
face  that  there  was  something  wrong.  Greybrooke 
had  concluded  that  the  editor  had  forgotten  about 
the  first  review. 

"  Can  you  show  me  a  copy  of  the  Mirror^''  the 
captain  asked,  "  for  October  3rd  *?  " 

Mr.  Licquorish  turned  to  the  file,  and  Grey- 
brooke looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"  There  it  is !  "  cried  the  captain,  indignantly. 

They  read  the  original  notice  together.  It  said 
that,  if  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns  "  was  written  by  a 
new  writer,  his  next  story  would  be  looked  for 
with  great  interest.     It  "could  not  refrain  from 

68 


"THE   SCORN   OF   SCORNS" 

quoting  the  following  exquisitely  tender  passage." 
It  found  the  earlier  pages  "  as  refreshing  as  a  spring 
morning,"  and  the  closing  chapters  were  a  triumph 
of  "  the  art  that  conceals  art." 

"  Well,  what  have  you  to  say  to  that  *?  "  asked 
Greybrooke,  fiercely. 

"A  mistake,"  said  the  editor,  blandly.     "  Such 
things  do  happen  occasionally." 

"  You  shall  make  reparation  for  it ! " 

"  Hum,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish. 

"The  insult,"  cried  Greybrooke,  "must   have 
been  intentional." 

"  No.  I  fancy  the  authoress  must  be  to  blame 
for  this.    Did  she  send  a  copy  of  the  work  to  us  *?  " 

"  I  should  think  it  very  unlikely,"  said  Grey- 
brooke, fuming. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  editor,  "  especially  if  she 
is  a  Silchester  lady." 

"  What  would  make  her  do  that  ?  "     , 

"  It  generally  comes  about  in  this  way.  The 
publishers  send  a  copy  of  the  book  to  a  newspaper, 
and  owing  to  pressure  on  the  paper's  space  no  no- 
tice appears  for  some  time.  The  author,  who  looks 
for  it  daily,  thinks  that  the  publishers  have  neg- 
lected their  duty,  and  sends  a  copy  to  the  office 
himself  The  editor,  forgetful  that  he  has  had  a 
notice  of  the  book  lying  ready  for  printing  for 
months,  gives  the  second  copy  to  another  reviewer. 
By  and  by  the  first  review  appears,  but  owing  to 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

an  oversight  the  editor  does  not  take  note  of  it,  and 
after  a  time,  unless  his  attention  is  called  to  the 
matter,  the  second  review  appears  also.  Probably 
that  is  the  explanation  in  this  case." 

"  But  such  carelessness  on  a  respectable  paper  is 
incomprehensible,"  said  the  captain. 

The  editor  was  looking  up  his  books  to  see  if 
they  shed  any  light  on  the  affair,  but  he  answered  — 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  an  experience  known  to 
most  newspapers.     Ah,  I  have  it  I  " 

Mr.  Licquorish  read  out,  '"The  Scorn  of  Scorns,' 
received  September  ist,  reviewed  October  3rd." 
Several  pages  further  on  he  discovered,  " '  The 
Scorn  of  Scorns,'  received  September  24th,  re- 
viewed December  19th." 

"  You  will  find,"  he  said,  "  that  this  explains  it." 

"  I  don't  consider  the  explanation  satisfactory," 
replied  the  captain,  "  and  I  insist,  first,  upon  an 
apology  in  the  paper,  and  second,  on  getting  the 
name  of  the  writer  of  the  second  review." 

"  I  am  busy  this  morning,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish, 
opening  his  door,  "  and  what  you  ask  is  absurd.  If 
the  authoress  can  give  me  her  word  that  she  did 
not  send  the  book  and  so  bring  this  upon  herself, 
we  shall  insert  a  word  on  the  subject,  but  not  other- 
wise.    Good  morning." 

"  Give  me  the  writer's  name,"  cried  the  captain. 

"  We  make  a  point  of  never  giving  names  in 
that  way,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish. 

70 


"THE   SCORN   OF   SCORNS" 

"  You  have  not  heard  the  last  of  this,"  Grey- 
brooke  said  from  the  doorway.  "  I  shall  make  it 
my  duty  to  ferret  out  the  coward's  name,  and  —  " 

"Good  morning,"  Mr.  Licquorish  repeated. 

The  captain  went  thumping  down  the  stairs, 
and  meeting  a  printer's  devil  at  the  bottom,  cuffed 
him  soundly  because  he  was  part  of  the  Mirror. 

To  his  surprise.  Miss  Meredith's  first  remark 
when  he  returned  was  — 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  didn't  see  him." 

She  looked  at  Greybrooke's  face,  fearing  it  might 
be  stained  with  blood,  and  when  he  told  her  the 
result  of  his  inquiries  she  seemed  pleased  rather 
than  otherwise.  Nell  was  soft-hearted  after  all, 
and  she  knew  how  that  second  copy  of  the  novel 
had  reached  the  Mirror  office. 

"  I  shall  find  the  fellow  out,  though,"  said  Grey- 
brooke,  grasping  his  cudgel  firmly. 

"  Why,  you  are  as  vindictive  as  if  you  had 
written  the  book  yourself,"  said  Nell. 

Greybrooke  murmured,  blushing  the  while,  that 
an  insult  to  her  hurt  him  more  than  one  offered  tc 
himself     Nell  opened  the  eyes  of  astonishment. 

"  You  don't  think  I  wrote  the  book  ^ "  she 
asked;  then  seeing  that  it  was  so  from  his  face, 
added,  "  Oh  no,  I'm  not  clever  enough.  It  was 
written  by  —  by  a  friend  of  mine." 

Nell  deserves  credit  for  not  telling  Greybrooke 
who  the  friend  was,  for  that  was  a  Secret.     But 

71 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

there  was  reason  to  believe  that  she  had  already 
divulged  it  to  twelve  persons  (all  in  the  strictest 
confidence).  When  the  captain  returned  she  was 
explaining  all  about  it  by  letter  to  Richard 
Abinger,  Esq.  Possibly  that  was  why  Grey- 
brooke  thought  she  was  not  nearly  so  nice  to 
him  now  as  she  had  been  an  hour  before. 

Will  was  unusually  quiet  when  he  and  Grey- 
brooke  said  adieu  to  the  whole  family  of  Mere- 
diths. He  was  burning  to  know  where  the  captain 
had  been,  and  also  what  Nell  called  him  back  to 
say  in  such  a  low  tone.     What  she  said  was  — 

"  Don't  say  anything  about  going  to  the  Mirror 
office,  Mr.  Greybrooke,  to  Miss  Abinger." 

The  captain  turned  round  to  lift  his  hat,  and  at 
the  same  time  expressed  involuntarily  a  wish  that 
Nell  could  see  him  punishing  loose  bowling. 

Mrs.  Meredith  beamed  to  him. 

"  There  is  something  very  nice,"  she  said  to  Nell, 
"  about  a  polite  young  man." 

"  Yes,"  murmured  her  daughter,  "and  even  if 
he  isn't  polite." 


72 


CHAPTER   V 

ROB   MARCHES   TO    HIS    FATE 

On  the  morning  before  Christmas  a  murder  was 
committed  in  Silchester,  and  in  murders  there  is 
"Hneage."  As  a  consequence,  the  head  reporter 
attends  to  them  himself.  In  the  Mirror  office  the 
diary  for  the  day  was  quickly  altered.  Kirker  set 
off  cheerfully  for  the  scene  of  the  crime,  leaving 
the  banquet  in  the  Henry  Institute  to  Tomlinson, 
who  passed  on  his  dinner  at  Dome  Castle  to  Rob, 
whose  church  decorations  were  taken  up  by  John 
Milton. 

Christmas  Eve  was  coming  on  in  snow  when 
Rob  and  Walsh,  of  the  Argus^  set  out  for  Dome 
Castle.  Rob  disliked  doing  dinners  at  any  time, 
partly  because  he  had  not  a  dress  suit.  The  dinner 
was  an  annual  one  given  by  Will's  father  to  his 
tenants,  and  reporters  were  asked  because  the 
colonel  made  a  speech.  His  neighbours,  when 
they  did  likewise,  sent  reports  of  their  own 
speeches  (which  they  seemed  to  like)  to  the 
papers;  and  some  of  them,  having  called  them- 
selves eloquent  and  justly  popular,  scored  the  com- 

73 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

pliments  out,  yet  in  such  a  way  that  the  editor 
would  still  be  able  to  read  them,  and  print  them 
if  he  thought  fit.  Rob  did  not  look  forward  to 
Colonel  Abinger's  reception  of  him,  for  they  had 
met  some  months  before,  and  called  each  other 
names. 

It  was  one  day  soon  after  Rob  reached  Silches- 
ter.  He  had  gone  a-fishing  in  the  Dome  and 
climbed  unconsciously  into  preserved  waters.  As 
his  creel  grew  heavier  his  back  straightened ;  not 
until  he  returned  home  did  the  scenery  impress 
him.  He  had  just  struck  a  fine  fish,  when  a  sol- 
dierly-looking man  at  the  top  of  the  steep  bank 
caught  sight  of  him. 

"  Hie,  you  sir  I "  shouted  the  onlooker.  Whir 
went  the  line  —  there  is  no  music  like  it.  Rob 
was  knee-deep  in  water.  "  You  fellow  I "  cried 
the  other,  brandishing  his  cane,  "are  you  aware 
that  this  water  is  preserved '?  "  Rob  had  no  time 
for  talk.  The  colonel  sought  to  attract  his  atten- 
tion by  flinging  a  pebble.  "  Don't  do  that,"  cried 
Rob,  fiercely. 

Away  went  the  fish.  Away  went  Rob  after  it. 
Colonel  Abinger's  face  was  red  as  he  clambered 
down  the  bank,  "  I  shall  prosecute  you,"  he 
shouted.  "  He's  gone  to  the  bottom ;  fling  in  a 
stone  !  "  cried  Rob.  Just  then  the  fish  showed  its 
yellow  belly  and  darted  off  again,  Rob  let  out 
more  line,     "  No,  no,"  shouted  the  colonel,  who 

74 


ROB  MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

fished  himself,  "  you  lose  him  if  he  gets  to  the 
other  side ;  strike,  man,  strike  I  "  The  line  tight- 
ened, the  rod  bent  —  a  glorious  sight.  "Force 
him  up  stream,"  cried  the  colonel,  rolling  over 
boulders  to  assist.  "  Now,  you  have  him.  Bring 
him  in.  Where  is  your  landing  net  *?  "  "I  haven't 
one,"  cried  Rob ;  "  take  him  in  your  hands."  The 
colonel  stooped  to  grasp  the  fish  and  missed  it. 
*'  Bungler !  "  screamed  Rob.  This  was  too  much. 
"Give  me  your  name  and  address,"  said  Colonel 
Abinger,  rising  to  his  feet ;  "  you  are  a  poacher." 
Rob  paid  no  attention.  There  was  a  struggle. 
Rob  did  not  realize  that  he  had  pushed  his  as- 
sailant over  a  rock  until  the  fish  was  landed.  Then 
he  apologized,  offered  all  his  fish  in  lieu  of  his 
name  and  address,  retired  coolly  so  long  as  the 
furious  soldier  was  in  sight,  and  as  soon  as  he 
turned  a  corner  disappeared  rapidly.  He  could  not 
feel  that  this  was  the  best  introduction  to  the  man 
with  whom  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  dine. 

The  reporter  whose  long  strides  made  Walsh 
trot  as  they  hurried  to  Dome  Castle,  was  not  quite 
the  Rob  of  three  months  before.  Now  he  knew 
how  a  third-rate  newspaper  is  conducted,  and  the 
capacity  for  wonder  had  gone  from  him.  He  was 
in  danger  of  thinking  that  the  journalist's  art  is  to 
write  readably,  authoritatively,  and  always  in  three 
paragraphs  on  a  subject  he  knows  nothing  about. 
Rob  had  written  many  leaders,  and  followed  readers 

75 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

through  the  streets  wondering  if  they  liked  them. 
Once  he  had  gone  with  three  others  to  report  a 
bishop's  sermon.  A  curate  appeared  instead,  and 
when  the  reporters  saw  him  they  shut  their  note- 
books and  marched  blandly  out  of  the  cathedral. 
A  public  speaker  had  tried  to  bribe  Rob  with  two 
half-crowns,  and  it  is  still  told  in  Silchester  how 
the  wrathful  Scotsman  tore  his  benefactor  out  ot 
the  carriage  he  had  just  stepped  into,  and,  lifting 
him  on  high,  looked  around  to  consider  against 
which  stone  wall  he  should  hurl  him.  He  had 
discovered  that  on  the  first  of  the  month  Mr.  Lic- 
quorish  could  not  help  respecting  his  staff,  because 
on  that  day  he  paid  them.  Socially  Rob  had  ac- 
quired little.  Protheroe  had  introduced  him  to  a 
pleasant  family,  but  he  had  sat  silent  in  a  corner, 
and  they  told  the  sub-editor  not  to  bring  him  back. 
Most  of  the  literary  staff  were  youths  trying  to  be 
Bohemians,  who  liked  to  feel  themselves  sinking, 
and  they  never  scaled  the  reserve  which  walled 
Rob  round.  He  had  taken  a  sitting,  however,  in 
the  Scotch  church,  to  the  bewilderment  of  the 
minister,  who  said,  "  But  I  thought  you  were  a 
reporter  *?  "  as  if  there  must  be  a  mistake  some- 
where. 

Walsh  could  tell  Rob  little  of  Colonel  Abinger. 
He  was  a  brave  soldier,  and  for  many  years  had 
been  a  widower.  His  elder  son  was  a  barrister  in 
London,  whom  Silchester  had  almost  forgotten, 

76 


ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

and  Walsh  fancied  there  was  some  story  about  the 
daughter's  being  engaged  to  a  baronet.  There  was 
also  a  boy,  who  had  the  other  day  brought  the 
captain  of  his  school  to  a  Silchester  football  ground 
to  show  the  club  how  to  take  a  drop-kick. 

"  Does  the  colonel  fish  *? "  asked  Rob,  who 
would,  however,  have  preferred  to  know  if  the 
colonel  had  a  good  memory  for  faces. 

"  He  is  a  famous  angler,"  said  Walsh ;  "  indeed, 
I  have  been  told  that  his  bursts  of  passion  are 
over  in  five  minutes,  except  when  he  catches  a 
poacher." 

Rob  winced,  for  Walsh  did  not  know  of  the 
fishing  episode. 

"  His  temper,"  continued  Walsh,  "  is  such  that 
his  male  servants  are  said  never  to  know  whether 
he  will  give  them  a  shilling  or  a  whirl  of  his  cane  — 
until  they  get  it.  The  gardener  takes  a  look  at 
him  from  behind  a  tree  before  venturing  to  address 
him.  I  suppose  his  poverty  is  at  the  bottom  of  it, 
for  the  estate  is  mortgaged  heavily,  and  he  has  had 
to  cut  down  trees,  and  even  to  sell  his  horses.  The 
tenants  seem  to  like  him,  though,  and  if  they  dared 
they  would  tell  him  not  to  think  himself  bound  to 
give  them  this  annual  dinner.  There  are  number- 
less stories  of  his  fierce  temper,  and  as  many  of  his 
extravagant  kindness.  According  to  his  servants, 
he  once  emptied  his  pocket  to  a  beggar  at  a  railway 
station,  and  then  discovered  that  he  had  no  money 

77 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

for  his  own  ticket.  As  for  the  ne'er-do-weels,  their 
importuning  makes  him  rage,  but  they  know  he 
will  fling  them  something  in  the  end  if  they  expose 
their  rags  sufficiently." 

"  So,"  said  Rob,  who  did  not  want  to  like  the 
colonel,  "  he  would  not  trouble  about  them  if  they 
kept  their  misery  to  themselves.  That  kind  of 
man  is  more  likely  to  be  a  philanthropist  in  your 
country  than  in  mine." 

"  Keep  that  for  a  Burns  dinner,"  suggested 
Walsh. 

Rob  heard  now  how  Tomlinson  came  to  be 
nicknamed  Umbrage. 

"  He  was  sub-editing  one  night,"  Walsh  ex- 
plained, "  during  the  time  of  an  African  war,  and 
things  were  going  so  smoothly  that  he  and  Penny 
were  chatting  amicably  together  about  the  advan- 
tage of  having  a  few  Latin  phrases  in  a  leader,  such 
as  dolce  far  niente,  or  cela  va  sans  dire  —  " 

"  I  can  believe  that,"  said  Rob,  "  of  Penny  cer- 
tainly." 

"  Well,  in  the  middle  of  the  discussion  an  im- 
portant war  telegram  arrived,  to  the  not  unnatural 
disgust  of  both.  As  is  often  the  case,  the  message 
was  misspelt,  and  barely  decipherable,  and  one 
part  of  it  puzzled  Tomlinson  a  good  deal.  It 
read :  '  Zulus  have  taken  Umbrage ;  English  forces 
had  to  retreat.'  Tomlinson  searched  the  map  in 
vain  for  Umbrage,  which  the  Zulus  had  taken ; 

78 


ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

and  Penny,  being  in  a  hurry,  was  sure  it  was  a 
fortress.  So  they  risked  it,  and  next  morning  the 
chief  lines  in  the  Mirror  contents  bill  were  :  '  Latest 
News  of  the  War  ;  Capture  of  Umbrage  by 
THE  Zulus.'" 

By  this  time  the  reporters  had  passed  into  the 
grounds  of  the  castle,  and,  being  late,  were  hurry- 
ing up  the  grand  avenue.  It  was  the  hour  and 
the  season  when  night  comes  on  so  sharply,  that  its 
shadow  may  be  seen  trailing  the  earth  as  a  breeze 
runs  along  a  field  of  corn.  Heard  from  a  height 
the  roar  of  the  Dome  among  rocks  might  have 
been  the  rustle  of  the  surrounding  trees  in  June  ; 
so  men  and  women  who  grow  old  together  some- 
times lend  each  other  a  voice.  Walsh,  seeing  his 
opportunity  in  Rob's  silence,  began  to  speak  of 
himself  He  told  how  his  first  press-work  had 
been  a  series  of  letters  he  had  written  when  at 
school,  and  contributed  to  a  local  paper  under  the 
signatures  of  "  Paterfamilias  "  and  "  An  Indignant 
Ratepayer."  Rob  scarcely  heard.  The  bare  ro- 
mantic scenery  impressed  him,  and  the  snow  in  his 
face  was  like  a  whiff  of  Thrums.  He  was  dream- 
ing, but  not  of  the  reception  he  might  get  at  the 
castle,  ^^-hen  the  clatter  of  horses  awoke  him. 

"  There  is  a  machine  behind  us,"  he  said,  though 
he  would  have  written  trap. 

A  brougham  lumbered  into  sight.  As  its  lamps 
flashed  on  the  pedestrians,  the  coachman  jerked  his 

79 


WHEN   A    MAN'S   SINGLE 

horses  to  the  side,  and  Rob  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
carriage's  occupant.     The  brougham  stopped. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  traveller,  opening 
his  window,  and  addressing  Rob,  "  but  in  the 
darkness  I  mistook  you  for  Colonel  Abinger." 

"  We  are  on  our  way  to  the  castle,"  said  Walsh, 
stepping  forward. 

"  Ah,  then,"  said  the  stranger,  "  perhaps  you 
will  give  me  your  company  for  the  short  distance 
we  have  still  to  go  2  " 

There  was  a  fine  courtesy  in  his  manner  that 
made  the  reporters  feel  their  own  deficiencies,  yet 
Rob  thought  the  stranger  repented  his  offer  as  soon 
as  it  was  made.  Walsh  had  his  hand  on  the  door, 
but  Rob  said  — 

"  We  are  going  to  Dome  Castle  as  reporters." 

"Oh I"  said  the  stranger.  Then  he  bowed 
graciously,  and  pulled  up  the  window.  The  car- 
riage rumbled  on,  leaving  the  reporters  looking  at 
each  other.  Rob  laughed.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  the  advantage  a  handsome  man  has  over  a 
plain  one  had  struck  him.  He  had  only  once  seer, 
such  a  face  before,  and  that  was  in  marble  in  the 
Silchester  Art  Museum.  This  man  looked  thirty 
years  of  age,  but  there  was  not  a  line  on  his  broad, 
white  brow.  The  face  was  magnificently  classic, 
from  the  strong  Roman  nose  to  the  firm  chin.  The 
eyes,  too  beautiful  almost  for  his  sex,  were  brown 
and  wistful,  of  the  kind  that  droop  in  disappoint- 
So 


ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

ment  oftener  than  they  blaze  with  anger.  All  the 
hair  on  his  face  was  a  heavy  drooping  moustache 
that  almost  hid  his  mouth. 

Walsh  shook  his  fist  at  this  insult  to  the  Press. 

"  It  is  the  baronet  1'  spoke  of  to  you,"  he  said. 
"  I  forget  who  he  is ;  indeed,  I  rather  think  he 
travelled  hicognito  when  he  was  here  last.  I  don't 
understand  what  he  is  doing  here." 

"  Why,  I  should  say  this  is  just  the  place  where 
he  would  be  if  he  is  to  marry  Miss  Abinger." 

"  That  was  an  old  story,"  said  Walsh.  "  If  there 
ever  was  an  engagement  it  was  broken  off.  Be- 
sides, if  he  had  been  expected  we  should  have 
known  of  it  at  the  Argus" 

Walsh  was  right.  Sir  Clement  Dowton  was  not 
expected  at  Dome  Castle,  and,  like  Rob,  he  was 
not  even  certain  that  he  would  be  welcome.  As 
he  drew  near  his  destination  his  hands  fidgetted 
with  the  window  strap,  yet  there  was  an  unac- 
countable twinkle  in  his  eye.  Had  there  been 
any  onlookers  they  would  have  been  surprised  to 
see  that  all  at  once  the  baronet's  sense  of  humour 
seemed  to  overcome  his  fears,  and  instead  of 
quaking  he  laughed  heartily.  Sir  Clement  was 
evidently  one  of  the  men  who  carry  their  joke 
about  with  them. 

This  unexpected  guest  did  Rob  one  good  turn. 
When  the  colonel  saw  Sir  Clement  he  hesitated 
for  a  moment  as  if  not  certain  how  to  greet  him. 

8i 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Then  the  baronet,  who  was  effusive,  murmured 
that  he  had  something  to  say  to  him,  and  Colonel 
Abinger's  face  cleared.  He  did  Sir  Clement  the 
unusual  honour  of  accompanying  him  upstairs 
himselt,  and  so  Rob  got  the  seat  assigned  to  him 
at  the  dinner-table  without  having  to  meet  his  host 
in  the  face.  The  butler  marched  him  down  a 
long  table  with  a  twist  in  it,  and  placed  him 
under  arrest,  as  it  were,  in  a  chair  from  which  he 
saw  only  a  few  of  the  company.  The  dinner  had 
already  begun,  but  the  first  thing  he  realized  as  he 
took  his  seat  was  that  there  was  a  lady  on  each 
side  of  him,  and  a  table-napkin  in  front.  He  was 
not  sure  if  he  was  expected  to  address  the  ladies, 
and  he  was  still  less  certain  about  the  table-napkin. 
Of  such  things  he  had  read,  and  he  had  even  tried 
to  be  prepared  for  them.  Rob  looked  nervously 
at  the  napkin,  and  then  took  a  covert  glance  along 
the  table.  There  was  not  a  napkin  in  sight  except 
one  which  a  farmer  had  tied  round  his  neck. 
Rob's  fingers  wanted  to  leave  the  napkin  alone, 
but  by  an  effort  he  forced  them  toward  it.  All 
this  time  his  face  was  a  blank,  but  the  internal 
struggle  was  sharp.  He  took  hold  of  the  napkin, 
however,  and  spread  it  on  his  knees.  It  fell  to  the 
floor  immediately  afterwards,  but  he  disregarded  that. 
It  was  no  longer  staring  at  him  from  the  table,  and 
with  a  heavy  sigh  of  relief  he  began  to  feel  more  at 
ease.     There  is  nothing  like  burying  our  bogies. 

82 


ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

His  position  prevented  Rob's  seeing  either  the 
colonel  at  the  head  of  the  table  or  Miss  Abinger 
at  the  foot  of  it,  and  even  Walsh  was  hidden  from 
view.  But  his  right-hand  neighbour  was  a  local 
doctor's  wife,  whom  the  colonel  had  wanted  to 
honour  without  honouring  too  much,  and  she  gave 
him  some  information.  Rob  was  relieved  to  hear 
her  address  him,  and  she  was  interested  in  a  tame 
Scotsman. 

"  I  was  once  in  the  far  north  myself,"  she  said, 
"  as  far  as  Orkney.  We  were  nearly  drowned  in 
crossing  that  dreadful  sea  between  it  and  the  main- 
land.    The  Solway  Firth,  is  it  ?  " 

Rob  thought  for  a  moment  of  explaining  what 
sea  it  is,  and  then  he  thought,  why  should  he  ? 

"  Yes,  the  Solway  Firth,"  he  said. 

"  It  was  rather  an  undertaking,"  she  pursued, 
"but  though  we  were  among  the  mountains  for 
days,  we  never  encountered  any  of  those  robbp** 
chieftains  one  reads  about  —  caterans  I  think  you 
call  them  ^  " 

"  You  were  very  lucky,"  said  Rob. 

"  Were  we  not  ?  But,  you  know,  we  took  such 
precautions.  There  was  quite  a  party  of  us,  in- 
cluding my  father,  who  has  travelled  a  great  deal, 
and  all  the  gentlemen  wore  kilts.  My  father  said 
it  was  always  prudent  to  do  in  Rome  as  the  Ro- 
mans do." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Rob,  "  that  in  that  way 

83 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

you  escaped  the  caterans.     They  are  very  open  to 
riattery." 

"So  my  father  said.  We  also  found  that  we 
could  make  ourselves  understood  by  saying, '  what- 
ever' and  remembering  to  call  the  men  'she'  and 
the  women  'he.'     What  a  funny  custom  that  is  I" 

"  We  can't  get  out  of  it,"  said  Rob, 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  the  lady  continued,  "  that 
you  can  tell  me.  I  have  been  told  that  in  winter 
the  wild  boars  take  refuge  in  the  streets  of  Inver- 
ness, and  that  there  are  sometimes  very  exciting 
hunts  after  them  *?  " 

"  That  is  only  when  they  run  away  with  chil- 
dren," Rob  explained.  "  Then  the  natives  go  out 
in  large  bodies  and  shoot  them  with  claymores.  It 
is  a  most  exciting  scene." 

When  the  doctor's  wife  learned  that  this  was 
Rob's  first  visit  to  the  castle,  she  told  him  at  once 
that  she  was  there  frequently.  It  escaped  his  no- 
tice that  she  paused  here  and  awaited  the  effect. 
She  was  not  given  to  pausing. 

"My  husband,"  she  said,  "attended  on  Lady 
Louisa  during  her  last  illness  —  quite  ten  years  ago. 
I  was  married  very  young,"  she  added,  hurriedly. 

Rob  was  very  nearly  saying  he  saw  that.  The 
words  were  in  his  mouth,  when  he  hesitated,  re- 
flecting that  it  was  not  worth  while.  This  is  only 
noticeable  as  showing  that  he  missed  his  first  com- 
pliment. 

84 


ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

"  Lady  Louisa  ?  "  he  repeated  instead. 

"Oh,  yes,  the  colonel  married  one  of  Lord 
Tarlington's  daughters.  There  were  seven  of 
them,  you  know,  and  no  sons,  and  when  the 
youngest  was  born  it  was  said  that  a  friend  of  his 
lordship  sent  him  a  copy  of  Wordsworth,  with  the 
page  turned  down  at  the  poem,  '  We  are  Seven ' 
— .a  lady  friend,  I  believe." 

"  Is  Miss  Abinger  like  the  colonel  ? "  asked 
Rob,  who  had  heard  it  said  that  she  was  beautiful, 
and  could  not  help  taking  an  interest  in  her  in 
consequence. 

"  You  have  not  seen  Miss  Abinger  *? "  asked 
the  doctor's  wife.  "  Ah,  you  came  late,  and  that 
vulgar-looking  farmer  hides  her  altogether.  She 
is  a  lovely  girl,  but  —  " 

Rob's  companion  pursed  her  lips. 

"  She  is  so  cold  and  proud,"  she  added. 

"  As  proud  as  her  father  ?  "   Rob  asked,  aghast. 

"  Oh,  the  colonel  is  humility  itself  beside  her. 
He  freezes  at  times,  but  she  never  thaws." 

Rob  sighed  involuntarily.  He  was  not  aware 
that  his  acquamtances  spoke  in  a  similar  way  of 
him.  His  eyes  wandered  up  the  table  till  they 
rested  of  their  own  accord  on  a  pretty  girl  in  blue, 
At  that  moment  she  was  telling  Greybrooke  that 
he  could  call  her  Nell,  because  *'  Miss  "  Meredith 
sounded  like  a  reproach. 

The  reporter  looked  at  Nell  with  satisfaction, 

85 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

and  the  doctor's  wife  followed  his  thoughts  so  ac- 
curately that,  before  she  could  check  herself,  she 
said,  "  Do  vou  think  so  ^  " 

Then  Rob  started,  which  confused  both  of  them, 
and  for  the  remainder  of  the  dinner  the  loquacious 
lady  seemed  to  take  less  interest  in  him,  he  could 
not  understand  why.  Flung  upon  his  own  re- 
sources, he  remembered  that  he  had  not  spoken  to 
the  lady  on  his  other  side.  Had  Rob  only  known 
it,  she  felt  much  more  uncomfortable  in  that  great 
dining-room  than  he  did.  No  one  was  speaking 
to  her,  and  she  passed  the  time  between  tht 
courses  breaking  her  bread  to  pieces  and  eating  it 
slowly  crumb  by  crumb.  Rob  thought  of  some- 
thing to  say  to  her,  but  when  he  tried  the  words 
over  in  his  own  mind  they  seemed  so  little  worth 
saying  that  he  had  to  think  again.  He  found 
himself  counting  the  crumbs,  and  then  it  struck 
him  that  he  might  ask  her  if  she  would  like  any 
salt.  He  did  so,  but  she  thought  he  asked  for 
salt,  and  passed  the  salt-cellar  to  him,  whereupon 
Rob,  as  the  simplest  way  to  get  out  of  it,  helped 
himself  to  more  salt,  though  he  did  not  need  it. 
The  intercourse  thus  auspiciously  begun,  went  no 
further,  and  they  never  met  again.  It  might  have 
been  a  romance. 

The  colonel  had  not  quite  finished  his  speech, 
which  was  to  the  effect  that  so  long  as  his  tenants 
looked  up  to  him  as  some  one  superior  to  them- 

86 


ROB  MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

selves  they  would  find  him  an  indulgent  landlord, 
when  the  tread  of  feet  was  heard  outside,  and  then 
the  music  of  the  waits.  The  colonel  frowned  and 
raised  his  voice,  but  his  guests  caught  themselves 
tittering,  and  read  their  host's  rage  in  his  darkening 
face.  Forgetting  that  the  waits  were  there  by  his 
own  invitation,  he  signed  to  James,  the  butler,  to 
rush  out  and  mow  them  down.  James  did  not 
interpret  the  message  so,  but  for  the  moment  it 
was  what  his  master  meant. 

While  the  colonel  was  hesitating  whether  to  go 
on,  Rob  saw  Nell  nod  encouragingly  to  Grey- 
brooke.  He  left  his  seat,  and  before  any  one 
knew  what  he  was  about,  had  flung  open  one  of 
the  windows.  The  room  filled  at  once  with 
music,  and,  as  if  by  common  consent,  the  table 
was  deserted.  Will  opened  the  remaining  win- 
dows, and  the  waits,  who  had  been  singing  to 
shadows  on  the  white  blinds,  all  at  once  found 
a  crowded  audience.  Rob  hardly  realized  what 
it  meant,  for  he  had  never  heard  the  waits  before. 

It  was  a  scene  that  would  have  silenced  a 
schoolgirl.  The  night  was  so  clear,  that  be- 
yond the  lawn  where  the  smgers  were  grouped 
the  brittle  trees  showed  in  every  twig.  No  snow 
was  falling,  and  so  monotonous  was  the  break  ot 
the  river,  that  the  ear  would  only  have  noticed  it 
had  it  stopped.  The  moon  stood  overhead  like  a 
frozen  round  of  snow. 

87 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Looking  over  the  heads  of  those  who  had 
gathered  at  one  of  the  windows,  Rob  saw  first 
Will  Abinger  and  then  the  form  of  a  girl  cross  to 
the  singers.  Some  one  followed  her  with  a  cloak. 
From  the  French  windows  steps  dropped  to  the  lawn. 
A  lady  beside  Rob  shivered  and  retired  to  the  fire- 
side, but  Nell  whispered  to  Greybrooke  that  she 
must  run  after  Mary.  Several  others  followed  her 
down  the  steps. 

Rob,  looking  round  for  Walsh,  saw  him  in  con- 
versation with  the  colonel.  Probably  he  was  taking 
down  the  remainder  of  the  speech.  Then  a  lady's 
voice  said,  "Who  is  that  magnificent  young  man?" 

The  sentence  ended  "with  the  hob-nailed  boots," 
and  the  reference  was  to  Rob,  but  he  only  caught 
the  first  words.  He  thought  the  baronet  was 
spoken  of,  and  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had 
not  appeared  at  the  dinner-table.  As  Sir  Clement 
entered  the  room  at  that  moment  in  evening  dress, 
making  most  of  those  who  surrounded  him  look 
mean  by  comparison,  Rob  never  learned  who  the 
magnificent  young  man  was. 

Sir  Clement's  entrance  was  something  of  a  sen- 
sation, and  Rob  saw  several  ladies  raise  their  eye- 
brows. All  seemed  to  know  him  by  name,  and 
some  personally.  The  baronet's  nervousness  had 
evidently  passed  away,  for  he  bowed  and  smiled  to 
every  one,  claiming  some  burly  farmers  as  old  ac- 
quaintances though  he  had  never  seen  them  before. 

88 


ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

His  host  and  he  seemed  already  on  the  most  cordial 
terms,  but  the  colonel  was  one  of  the  few  persons 
in  the  room  who  was  not  looking  for  Miss  Abinger. 
At  last  Sir  Clement  asked  for  her. 

"  I  believe,"  said  some  one  in  answer  to  the 
colonel's  inquiring  glance  round  the  room,  "  that 
Miss  Abinger  is  speaking  with  the  waits." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  see  her,"  said  Dowton,  stepping 
out  at  one  of  the  windows. 

Colonel  Abinger  followed  him  to  the  window, 
but  no  further,  and  at  that  moment  a  tall  figure  on 
the  snowy  lawn  crossed  his  line  of  vision.  It 
was  Rob,  who,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  him- 
self, had  wandered  into  the  open.  His  back  was 
toward  the  colonel,  and  something  in  his  walk  re- 
called to  that  choleric  officer  the  angler  whom  he 
had  encountered  on  the  Dome. 

"  That  is  the  man  —  I  was  sure  I  knew  the  face," 
said  Colonel  Abinger.  He  spoke  in  a  whisper  to 
himself,  but  his  hands  closed  with  a  snap. 

Unconscious  of  all  this,  Rob  strolled  on  till  he 
found  a  path  that  took  him  round  the  castle.  Sud- 
denly he  caught  sight  of  a  blue  dress,  and  at  the 
same  moment  a  girl's  voice  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  I  am 
afraid  it  is  lost  I " 

The  speaker  bent,  as  if  to  look  for  something  in 
the  snow,  and  Rob  blundered  up  to  her.  "  If  you 
have  lost  anything,"  he  said,  "perhaps  I  can  find  it." 

Rob  had  matches  in  his  pocket,  and  he  struck 

89 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

one  of  them.  Then,  to  his  surprise,  he  noticed  that 
Nell  was  not  alone.  Greybrooke  was  with  her,  and 
he  was  looking  foolish. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Nell,  sweetly ; 
"  it  is  a  —  a  bracelet." 

Rob  went  down  on  his  knees  to  look  for  the 
bracelet,  but  it  surprised  him  a  little  that  Grey- 
brooke did  not  follow  his  example.  If  he  had 
looked  up,  he  would  have  seen  that  the  captain 
was  gazing  at  Nell  in  amazement. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  lost,"  Nell  repeated,  "  or  per- 
haps I  dropped  it  in  the  dining-room." 

Greybrooke's  wonder  was  now  lost  in  a  grin,  for 
Nell  had  lost  nothing,  unless  perhaps  for  the  mo- 
ment her  sense  of  what  was  fit  and  proper.  The 
captain  had  followed  her  on  to  the  lawn,  and  per- 
suaded her  to  come  and  look  down  upon  the  river 
from  the  top  of  the  cliff.  She  had  done  so,  she 
told  herself,  because  he  was  a  boy ;  but  he  had 
wanted  her  to  do  it  because  she  was  a  woman.  On 
the  very  spot  where  Richard  Abinger,  barrister-at- 
law,  had  said  something  to  her  that  Nell  would 
never  forget,  the  captain  had  presumptuously 
kissed  her  hand,  and  Nell  had  allowed  him,  be- 
cause after  all  it  was  soon  over.  It  was  at  that 
very  moment  that  Rob  came  in  sight,  and  Nell 
thought  she  was  justified  in  deceiving  him.  Rob 
would  have  remained  a  long  time  on  the  snow  if 
she  had  not  had  a  heart. 

90 


ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  did  drop  it  in  the  dining-room,'* 
said  Nell,  in  such  a  tone  of  conviction  that  Rob 
rose  to  his  feet.  His  knees  were  white  in  her  set' 
vice,  and  Nell  felt  that  she  liked  this  young  man. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr.  — 
Mr.  —  "  began  the  young  lady. 

"  My  name  is  Angus,"  said  Rob ;  "  I  am  a  re- 
porter on  the  Sihhester  Mirror^ 

Greybrooke  started,  and  Nell  drew  back  in  horror, 
but  the  next  second  she  was  smiling.  Rob  thought 
it  was  kindliness  that  made  her  do  it,  but  it  was 
really  a  smile  of  triumph.  She  felt  that  she  was  on 
the  point  of  making  a  discovery  at  last.  Grey- 
brooke would  have  blurted  out  a  question,  but 
Nell  stopped  him. 

"  Get  me  a  wrap  of  some  kind,  Mr.  Greybrooke," 
she  said,  with  such  sweet  imperiousness  that  the 
captain  went  without  a  word.  Halfway  he  stopped 
to  call  himself  a  fool,  for  he  had  remembered  all  at 
once  about  Raleigh  and  his  cloak,  and  seen  how  he 
mighthave  adapted  that  incident  tohis  advantage  by 
offering  to  put  his  own  coat  round  Nell's  shoulders. 

It  was  well  that  Greybrooke  did  not  look  back, 
for  he  would  have  seen  Miss  Meredith  take  Rob's 
arm  —  which  made  Rob  start  —  and  lead  him  in 
the  direction  in  which  Miss  Abinger  was  supposed 
to  have  gone. 

"  The  literary  life  must  be  delightful,"  said  art- 
ful Nell,  looking  up  into  her  companion's  face. 

91 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Rob  appreciated  the  flattery,  but  his  pride  made 
him  say  that  the  Hterary  Hfe  was  not  the  reporter's. 

"  I  always  read  the  Mirror"  continued  Nell,  on 
whom  the  moon  was  having  a  bad  effect  to-night, 
"and  often  I  wonder  who  writes  the  articles. 
There  was  a  book-review  in  it  a  few  days  ago  that 
I  —  I  liked  very  much." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  the  book  was  ?  "  asked 
Rob,  jumping  into  the  pit. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Nell,  putting  her  head  to  the 
side,  "it  was — yes,  it  was  a  novel  called  —  called 
*  The  Scorn  of  Scorns.'  " 

Rob's  good  angel  was  very  near  him  at  that  mo- 
ment, but  not  near  enough  to  put  her  palm  over 
his  mouth. 

"  That  review  was  mine,"  said  Rob,  with  un- 
called-for satisfaction. 

"  Was  it  *?  "  cried  his  companion,  pulling  away 
her  arm  viciously. 

The  path  had  taken  them  to  the  top  of  the  pile 
of  rocks,  from  which  it  is  a  sheer  descent  of  a  hun- 
dred feet  to  the  Dome.  At  this  point  the  river  is 
joined  by  a  smaller,  but  not  less  noisy  stream, 
which  rushes  at  it  at  right  angles.  Two  of  the 
castle  walls  rise  up  here  as  if  part  of  the  cliff,  and 
though  the  walk  goes  round  them,  they  seem  to 
the  angler  looking  up  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  Dome  to  be  part  of  the  rock.  From  the  win- 
dows that  look  to  the  west  and  north  one  can  see 

92 


ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE 

down  into  the  black  waters,  and  hear  the  Ferret, 
as  the  smaller  stream  is  called,  fling  itself  over 
jagged  boulders  into  the  Dome. 

The  ravine  coming  upon  him  suddenly,  took 
away  Rob's  breath,  and  he  hardly  felt  Nell  snatch 
away  her  arm.  She  stood  back,  undecided  what 
to  do  for  a  moment,  and  they  were  separated  by  a 
few  yards.  Then  Rob  heard  a  man's  voice,  soft 
and  low,  but  passionate.  He  knew  it  to  be  Sir 
Clement  Dowton's,  though  he  lost  the  words.  A 
girl's  voice  answered,  however,  a  voice  so  exqui- 
sitely modulated,  so  clear  and  pure,  that  Rob  trem- 
bled with  delight  in  it.     This  is  what  it  said  — 

"No,  Sir  Clement  Dowton,  I  bear  you  no  ill- 
will,  but  I  do  not  love  you.  Years  ago  I  made  an 
idol  and  worshipped  it,  because  I  knew  no  better, 
but  I  am  a  foolish  girl  no  longer,  and  I  know  now 
that  it  was  a  thing  of  clay." 

To  Rob's  amazement  he  found  himself  murmur- 
ing these  words  even  before  they  were  spoken.  He 
seemed  to  know  them  so  well,  that  had  the  speaker 
missed  anything,  he  could  have  put  her  right.  It 
was  not  sympathy  that  worked  this  marvel.  He 
had  read  all  this  before,  or  something  very  like  it, 
in  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns." 

Nell,  too,  heard  the  voice,  but  did  not  catch 
the  words.  She  ran  forward,  and  as  she  reached 
Rob,  a  tall  girl  in  white,  with  a  dark  hood  over 
her  head,  pushed  aside  a  bush  and  came  into  view. 

93 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  Mary,"  cried  Miss  Meredith,  "  this  gentleman 
here  is  the  person  who  wrote  that  in  the  Mirror. 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  him,  Mr.  Angus,  Miss' —  " 
and  then  Nell  shrank  back  in  amazement,  as  she 
saw  who  was  with  her  friend. 

"  Sir  Clement  Dowton  I  "  she  exclaimed. 

Rob,  however,  did  not  hear  her,  nor  see  the 
baronet,  for  looking  up  with  a  guilty  feeling  at 
his  heart,  his  eyes  met  Mary  Abinger. 


94 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   ONE   WOMAN 

Daybreak  on  the  following  morning  found  the  gas 
blazing  in  Rob's  lodgings.  Rob  was  seated  in  an 
armchair,  his  feet  on  the  cold  hearth.  "  The  Scorn 
of  Scorns  "  lay  on  the  mantlepiece  carefully  done 
up  in  brown  paper,  lest  a  speck  of  dust  should  fall 
on  it,  and  he  had  been  staring  at  the  ribs  of  the 
fireplace  for  the  last  three  hours  without  seeing 
them.  He  had  not  thought  of  the  gas.  His  bed 
was  unslept  on.  His  damp  boots  had  dried  on  his 
feet.  He  did  not  feel  cold.  All  night  he  had  sat 
there,  a  man  mesmerized.  For  the  only  time  in 
his  life  he  had  forgotten  to  wind  up  his  watch. 

At  times  his  lips  moved  as  if  he  were  speaking  to 
himself,  and  a  smile  lit  up  his  face.  Then  a  change 
of  mood  came,  and  he  beat  the  fender  with  his  feet 
till  the  fire-irons  rattled.  Thinking  over  these  re- 
marks brought  the  rapture  to  his  face : 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Angus  •?  " 

"  You  must  not  take  to  heart  what  Miss  Mere- 
dith said." 

"  Please  don't  say  any  more  about  it.     I  am 

9^ 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

quite  sure  you  gave  your  honest  opinion  about 
my  book." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  think  this  like  Scotland,  be- 
cause, of  course,  that  is  the  highest  compliment  a 
Scotsman  can  pay." 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Angus." 

That  was  all  she  had  said  to  him,  but  the  more 
Rob  thought  over  her  remarks  the  more  he  liked 
them.  It  was  not  so  much  the  words  themselves 
that  thrilled  him  as  the  way  they  were  said.  Other 
people  had  asked,  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Angus  *?  " 
without  making  an  impression,  but  her  greeting 
was  a  revelation  of  character,  for  it  showed  that 
though  she  knew  who  he  was  she  wanted  to  put 
him  at  his  ease.  This  is  a  delightful  attribute  in 
a  woman,  and  worth  thinking  about. 

Just  before  Miss  Abinger  said,  "  How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Angus?"  Rob  had  realized  what  people 
meant  by  calling  her  proud.  She  was  holding  her 
head  very  high  as  she  appeared  in  the  path,  and 
when  Nell  told  her  who  Rob  was  she  flushed.  He 
looked  hopelessly  at  her,  bereft  of  speech,  as  he  saw 
a  tear  glisten  on  her  eyelid;  and  as  their  eyes  met 
she  read  into  the  agony  that  he  was  suffering  be- 
cause he  had  hurt  her.  It  was  then  that  Mary 
made  that  memorable  observation,  "  How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Angus  ?  " 

They  turned  toward  the  castle  doors,  Nell  and 
the  baronet  in  front,  and  Rob  blurted  out  some 

96 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

self-reproaches  in  sentences  that  had  neither  be- 
ginning nor  end.  Mary  had  told  him  not  to  take 
it  so  terribly  to  heart,  but  her  voice  trembled  a 
little,  for  this  had  been  a  night  of  incident  to  her. 
Rob  knew  that  it  was  for  his  sake  she  had  checked 
that  tear,  and  as  he  sat  in  his  lodgings  through  the 
night  he  saw  that  she  had  put  aside  her  own 
troubles  to  lessen  his.  When  he  thought  of  that 
he  drew  a  great  breath.  The  next  moment  his 
whole  body  shuddered  to  think  what  a  brute  he 
had  been,  and  then  she  seemed  to  touch  his  elbow 
again,  and  he  half  rose  from  his  chair  in  a  transport. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  his  lodgings  Rob  had 
taken  up  "The  Scorn  of  Scorns,"  which  he  had 
not  yet  returned  to  Mr.  Licquorish,  and  re-read  it 
in  a  daze.  There  were  things  in  it  so  beautiful 
now  that  they  caught  in  his  throat  and  stopped  his 
reading;  they  took  him  so  far  into  the  thoughts 
of  a  girl  that  to  go  further  seemed  like  eavesdrop- 
ping. When  he  read  it  first  "The  Scorn  of 
Scorns  "  had  been  written  in  a  tongue  Rob  did 
not  know,  but  now  he  had  the  key  in  his  hands. 
There  is  a  universal  language  that  comes  upon 
young  people  suddenly,  and  enables  an  English 
girl,  for  instance,  to  understand  what  a  Chinaman 
means  when  he  looks  twice  at  her.  Rob  had  mas- 
tered it  so  suddenly  that  he  was  only  its  slave  at 
present.     His  horse  had  run  away  with  him. 

Had  the  critic  of  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns  "  been 

97 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

a  bald-headed  man  with  two  chins,  who  did  not 
know  the  authoress,  he  would  have  smiled  at  the 
severity  with  which  she  took  perfidious  man  to 
task,  and  written  an  indulgent  criticism  without 
reading  beyond  the  second  chapter.  If  he  had 
been  her  father  he  would  have  laughed  a  good 
deal  at  her  heroics,  but  now  and  again  they  would 
have  touched  him,  and  he  would  have  locked  the 
book  away  in  his  desk,  seeing  no  particular  clever- 
ness in  it,  but  feeling  proud  of  his  daughter.  It 
would  have  brought  such  thoughts  to  him  about 
his  wife  as  suddenly  fill  a  man  with  tenderness  — 
thoughts  he  seldom  gives  expression  to,  though 
she  would  like  to  hear  them. 

Rob,  however,  drank  in  the  book,  his  brain  filled 
with  the  writer  of  it.  It  was  about  a  young  girl 
who  had  given  her  heart  to  a  stranger,  and  one  day 
when  she  was  full  of  the  joy  of  his  love  he  had  dis- 
appeared. She  waited  wondering,  fearing,  and 
then  her  heart  broke,  and  her  only  desire  was  to 
die.  No  one  could  account  for  the  change  that 
came  over  her,  for  she  was  proud,  and  her  relatives 
were  not  sympathetic.  She  had  no  mother  to  go 
to,  and  her  father  could  not  have  understood.  She 
became  listless,  and  though  she  smiled  and  talked 
to  all,  when  she  went  to  her  solitary  bed-chamber 
she  turned  her  face  in  silence  to  the  wall.  Then 
a  fever  came  to  her,  and  after  that  she  had  to  be 
taken  to  the  continent.     What  shook  her  listless- 

y8 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

ness  was  an  accident  to  her  father.  It  was  feared 
that  he  was  on  his  deathbed,  and  as  she  nursed 
him  she  saw  that  her  Hfe  had  been  a  selfish  one. 
From  that  moment  she  resolved  if  he  got  better 
(Is  it  not  terrible  this  that  the  best  of  us  try  to  make 
terms  with  God*?)  to  devote  her  life  to  him,  and 
to  lead  a  nobler  existence  among  the  poor  and 
suffering  ones  at  home.  The  sudden  death  of  a 
relative  who  was  not  a  good  man  frightened  her  so 
much  that  she  became  ill  again,  and  now  she  was 
so  fearful  of  being  untruthful  that  she  could  not 
make  a  statement  of  fact  without  adding,  "  I  think 
so,"  under  her  breath.  She  let  people  take  advan- 
tage of  her  lest  she  should  be  taking  advantage  of 
them,  and  when  she  passed  a  cripple  on  the  road 
she  walked  very  slowly  so  that  he  should  not  feel 
his  infirmity. 

Years  afterwards  she  saw  the  man  who  had  pre- 
tended to  love  her  and  then  ridden  away.  He  said 
that  he  could  explain  everything  to  her,  and  that 
he  loved  her  still ;  but  she  drew  herself  up,  and 
with  a  look  of  ineffable  scorn  told  him  that  she  no 
longer  loved  him.  When  they  first  met,  she  said, 
she  had  been  little  more  than  a  child,  and  so  she 
had  made  an  idol  of  him.  But  long  since  the  idol 
had  crumbled  to  pieces,  and  now  she  knew  that 
she  had  worshipped  a  thing  of  clay.  She  wished 
him  well,  but  she  no  longer  loved  him.  As  Lord 
Caltonbridge  listened  he  knew  that  she  spoke  the 

99 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

truth,  and  his  eyes  drooped  before  her  dignified 
but  contemptuous  gaze.  Then,  concludes  the 
author,  dwelHng  upon  this  httle  triumph  with  a 
satisfaction  that  hardly  suggests  a  heart  broken  be- 
yond mending,  he  turned  upon  his  heel,  at  last  re- 
alizing what  he  was ;  and,  feeling  smaller  and 
meaner  than  had  been  his  wont,  left  the  Grange 
for  the  second  and  last  time. 

How  much  of  this  might  be  fiction,  Rob  was 
not  in  a  mind  to  puzzle  over.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  soul  of  a  pure-minded  girl  had  been  laid 
bare  to  him.  To  look  was  almost  a  desecration, 
and  yet  it  was  there  whichever  way  he  turned.  A 
great  longing  rose  in  his  heart  to  see  Mary  Abinger 
again  and  tell  her  what  he  thought  of  himself  now. 
He  rose  and  paced  the  floor,  and  the  words  he 
could  not  speak  last  night  came  to  his  lips  in  a 
torrent.  Like  many  men  who  live  much  alone 
Rob  often  held  imaginary  conversations  with  per- 
sons fir  distant,  and  he  denounced  himself  to  this 
girl  a  score  of  times  as  he  paced  back  and  forwards. 
Always  she  looked  at  him  in  reply  with  that  won- 
derful smile  which  had  pleaded  with  him  not  to  be 
unhappy  on  her  account.  Horrible  fears  laid  hold 
of  him  that  after  the  guests  had  departed  she  had 
gone  to  her  room  and  wept.  That  villain  Sir 
Clement  had  doubtless  left  the  castle  for  the 
second  and  last  time,  "  feeling  smaller  and  meaner 
than  had  been  his  wont "  (Rob  clenched  his  fists 

100 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

at  the  thought  of  him),  but  how  could  he  dare  to 
rage  at  the  baronet  when  he  had  been  as  great  a 
scoundrel  himself?  Rob  looked  about  him  for 
his  hat ;  a  power  not  to  be  resisted  was  drawing 
him  back  to  Dome  Castle. 

He  heard  the  clatter  of  crockery  in  the  kitchen 
as  he  opened  his  door,  and  it  recalled  him  to  him- 
self At  that  moment  it  flashed  upon  him  that  he 
had  forgotten  to  write  any  notice  of  Colonel  Abin- 
ger's  speech.  He  had  neglected  the  office  and 
come  straight  home.  At  any  other  time  this 
would  have  startled  him,  but  now  it  seemed  the 
merest  trifle.  It  passed  for  the  moment  from  his 
mind,  and  its  place  was  taken  by  the  remembrance 
that  his  boots  were  muddy  and  his  coat  soaking. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  seriousness  of  go- 
ing out  with  his  hair  unbrushed  came  home  to 
him.  He  had  hitherto  been  content  to  do  little 
more  than  fling  a  comb  at  it  once  a  day.  Rob  re- 
turned to  his  room,  and,  crossing  to  the  mirror, 
looked  anxiously  into  it  to  see  what  he  was  like. 
He  took  off  his  coat  and  brushed  it  vigorously. 

Having  laved  his  face,  he  opened  his  box  and 
produced  from  it  two  neckties,  which  he  looked  ar 
for  a  long  time  before  he  could  make  up  his 
mind  which  to  wear.  Then  he  changed  his  boots. 
When  he  had  brushed  his  hat  he  remembered  with 
anxiety  some  one  on  the  Mirror's  having  asked 
him  why  he  wore  it  so  far  back  on  his  head.     He 

loi 


WHEN   A   MAN  S   SINGLE 

tilted  it  forward,  and  carefully  examined  the  effect 
in  the  looking-glass.  Then,  forgetful  that  the 
sounds  from  the  kitchen  betokened  the  approach 
of  breakfast,  he  hurried  out  of  the  house.  It  was 
a  frosty  morning,  and  already  the  streets  were  alive, 
but  Rob  looked  at  no  one.  For  women  in  the 
abstract  he  now  felt  an  unconscious  pity,  because 
they  were  all  so  very  unlike  Mary  Abinger.  He 
had  grown  so  much  in  the  night  that  the  Rob 
Angus  of  the  day  before  seemed  but  an  acquain- 
tance of  his  youth. 

He  was  inside  the  grounds  of  Dome  Castle  again 
before  he  realized  that  he  had  no  longer  a  right  to 
be  there.  By  fits  and  starts  he  remembered  not  to 
soil  his  boots.  He  might  have  been  stopped  at 
the  lodge,  but  at  present  it  had  no  tenant.  A  year 
before.  Colonel  Abinger  had  realized  that  he  could 
not  keep  both  a  horse  and  a  lodge-keeper,  and  that 
he  could  keep  neither  if  his  daughter  did  not  part 
with  her  maid.  He  yielded  to  Miss  Abinger's  en- 
treaties, and  kept  the  horse. 

Rob  went  on  at  a  swinging  pace  till  he  turned 
an  abrupt  corner  of  the  walk  and  saw  Dome  Castle 
standing  up  before  him.  Then  he  started,  and 
turned  back  hastily.  This  was  not  owing  to  his 
remembering  that  he  was  trespassing,  but  because 
he  had  seen  a  young  lady  coming  down  the  steps. 
Rob  had  walked  five  miles  without  his  breakfast 
to  talk  to  Miss  Abinger,  but  as  soon  as  he  saw 

102 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

her  he  fled.  When  he  came  to  himself  he  was  so 
fearful  of  her  seeing  him,  that  he  hurried  behind  a 
tree,  where  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  burglar. 

Mary  Abinger  came  quickly  up  the  avenue, 
unconscious  that  she  was  watched,  and  Rob  dis- 
covered in  a  moment  that  after  all  the  prettiest 
thing  about  her  was  the  way  she  walked.  She  car- 
ried a  little  basket  in  her  hand,  and  her  dress  was 
a  blending  of  brown  and  yellow,  with  a  great  deal 
of  fur  about  the  throat.  Rob,  however,  did  not 
take  the  dress  into  account  until  she  had  passed 
him,  when,  no  longer  able  to  see  her  face,  he  gazed 
with  delight  after  her. 

Had  Rob  been  a  lady  he  would  probably  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  reason  why  Miss 
Abinger  wore  all  that  fur  instead  of  a  jacket  was 
because  she  knew  it  became  her  better.  Perhaps  it 
was.  Even  though  a  young  lady  has  the  satisfac- 
tion of  feeling  that  her  heart  is  now  adamant,  that 
is  no  excuse  for  her  dressing  badly.  Rob's  opinion 
was  that  it  would  matter  very  little  what  she  wore 
because  some  pictures  look  lovely  in  any  frame, 
but  that  was  a  point  on  which  he  and  Miss  Ab- 
inger always  differed.  Only  after  long  consid- 
eration had  she  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
hat  she  was  now  wearing  was  undoubtedly  the 
shape  that  suited  her  best,  and  even  yet  she  was 
ready  to  spend  time  in  thinking  about  other  shapes. 
What  would  have  seemed  even  more  surprising  to 

103 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Hob  was  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  one 
side  of  her  tace  was  better  than  the  other  side. 

No  mere  man,  however,  could  ever  have  told 
which  was  the  better  side  of  Miss  Abinger's  face. 
It  was  a  face  to  stir  the  conscience  of  a  good  man, 
and  make  unworthy  men  keep  their  distance,  for 
it  spoke  first  of  purity,  which  can  never  be  present 
anywhere  without  being  felt.  All  men  are  born 
with  a  craving  to  find  it,  and  they  never  look 
for  it  but  among  women.  The  strength  of  the 
craving  is  the  measure  of  any  man's  capacity  to 
love,  and  without  it  love  on  his  side  would  be 
impossible. 

Mary  Abinger  was  fragile  because  she  was  so 
sensitive.  She  carried  everywhere  a  fear  to  hurt 
the  feelings  of  others,  that  was  a  bodkin  at  her 
heart.  Men  and  women  in  general  prefer  to  give 
and  take.  The  keenness  with  which  she  felt  neces- 
sitated the  garment  of  reserve,  which  those  who 
did  not  need  it  for  themselves  considered  pride. 
Her  weakness  called  for  something  to  wrap  it  up. 
There  were  times  when  it  pleased  her  to  know 
that  the  disguise  was  effective,  but  not  when  it  de- 
ceived persons  she  admired.  The  cynicism  of 
"  The  Scorn  of  Scorns "  was  as  much  a  cloak  as 
her  coldness,  for  she  had  an  exquisite  love  of  what 
is  good  and  fine  in  life  that  idealized  into  heroes 
persons  she  knew  or  heard  of  as  having  a  virtue. 
It  would  have  been  cruel  to  her  to  say  that  there 

104 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

are  no  heroes.  When  she  found  how  little  of  the 
heroic  there  was  in  Sir  Clement  Dowton  she  told 
herself  that  there  are  none,  and  sometimes  other 
persons  had  made  her  repeat  this  since.  She  sel- 
dom reasoned  about  things,  however,  unless  her 
feelings  had  been  wounded,  and  soon  again  she 
was  dreaming  of  the  heroic.  Heroes  are  people 
to  love,  and  Mary's  idea  of  what  love  must  be 
would  have  frightened  some  persons  from  loving 
her.  With  most  men  affection  for  a  woman  is  fed 
on  her  regard  for  them.  Greatness  in  love  is  no 
more  common  than  greatness  in  leading  armies. 
Only  the  hundredth  man  does  not  prefer  to  dally 
where  woman  is  easiest  to  win ;  most  finding  the 
maids  of  honour  a  satisfactory  substitute  for  the 
princess.  So  the  boy  in  the  street  prefers  two  poor 
apples  to  a  sound  one.  It  may  be  the  secret  of 
England's  greatness. 

On  this  Christmas  Day  Mary  Abinger  came  up 
the  walk  rapidly,  scorning  herself  for  ever  having 
admired  Sir  Clement  Dowton.  She  did  everything 
in  the  superlative  degree,  and  so  rather  wondered 
that  a  thunderbolt  was  not  sent  direct  from  above 
to  kill  him  —  as  if  there  were  thunderbolts  for 
every  one.  If  we  got  our  deserts  most  of  us  would 
be  knocked  on  the  head  with  a  broomstick. 

When  she  was  out  of  sight,  Rob's  courage  re- 
turned, and  he  remembered  that  he  was  there  in 
the  hope  of  speaking  to  her.     He  hurried  up  the 

105 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

walk  after  her,  but  when  he  neared  her  he  fell  back 
in  alarm.  His  heart  was  beating  violently.  He 
asked  himself  in  a  quaver  what  it  was  that  he  had 
arranged  to  say  first. 

In  her  little  basket  Mary  had  Christmas  presents 
for  a  few  people,  inhabitants  of  a  knot  of  houses 
not  far  distant  from  the  castle  gates.  They  were 
her  father's  tenants,  and  he  rather  enjoyed  their 
being  unable  to  pay  much  rent,  it  made  them  so 
dependent.  Had  Rob  seen  how  she  was  received 
in  some  of  these  cottages,  how  she  sat  talking 
merrily  with  one  bed-ridden  old  woman  whom 
cheerfulness  kept  alive,  and  not  only  gave  a  dis- 
abled veteran  a  packet  of  tobacco,  but  filled  his 
pipe  for  him,  so  that  he  gallantly  said  he  was  reluc- 
tant to  smoke  it  (trust  an  old  man  for  gallantry), 
and  even  ate  pieces  of  strange  cakes  to  please  her 
hostesses,  he  would  often  have  thought  of  it  after- 
wards. However,  it  would  have  been  unnecessary 
prodigality  to  show  him  that,  for  his  mind  was 
filled  with  the  incomparable  manner  in  which  she 
knocked  at  doors  and  smiled  when  she  came  out. 
Once  she  dropped  her  basket,  and  he  could  re- 
member nothing  so  exquisite  as  her  way  of  picking 
it  up. 

Rob  lurked  behind  trees  and  peered  round 
hedges,  watching  Miss  Abinger  go  from  one  house 
to  another,  but  he  could  not  shake  himself  free  of 
the  fear  that  all  the  word  had   its  eye  on  him. 

106 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

Hitherto  not  his  honesty  but  its  bluntness  had  told 
against  him  (the  honesty  of  a  good  many  persons 
is  only  stupidity  asserting  itself),  and  now  he  had 
not  the  courage  to  be  honest.  When  any  way- 
farers approached  he  whistled  to  the  fields  as  if  he 
had  lost  a  dog  in  them,  or  walked  smartly  eastward 
(until  he  got  round  a  corner)  like  one  who  was  in  a 
hurry  to  reach  Silchester.  He  looked  covertly  at 
the  few  persons  who  passed  him,  to  see  if  they  were 
looking  at  him.  A  solitary  crow  fluttered  into  the 
air  from  behind  a  wall,  and  Rob  started.  In  a 
night  he  had  become  self-conscious. 

At  last  Mary  turned  homewards,  with  the  sun  in 
her  face.  Rob  was  moving  toward  the  hamlet 
when  he  saw  her,  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  came 
to  a  dead  stop.  He  knew  thai  if  she  passed  inside 
the  gates  of  the  castle  his  last  chance  of  speaking 
to  her  was  gone ;  but  it  was  not  that  which  made 
him  keep  his  ground.  He  was  shaking  as  the  thin 
boards  used  to  do  when  they  shot  past  his  circular 
saw.  His  mind,  in  short,  had  run  away  and  left 
him. 

On  other  occasions  Mary  would  not  have  thought 
of  doing  more  than  bow  to  Rob,  but  he  had  Christ- 
mas Day  in  his  favour,  and  she  smiled. 

"  A  happy  Christmas  to  you,  Mr.  Angus,"  she 
said,  holding  out  her  han<A. 

It  was  then  that  Rob  lifted  his  hat,  and  overcame 
his  upbringing.    His  unaccustomed  fingers  insisted 

107 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

on  lifting  it  in  such  a  cautious  way  that,  in  a  court 
of  law,  it  could  have  been  argued  that  he  was  only 
planting  it  more  firmly  on  his  head.  He  did  not 
do  it  well,  but  he  did  it.  Some  men  would  have 
succumbed  altogether  on  realizing  so  sharply  that 
it  is  not  women  who  are  terrible,  but  a  woman. 
Here  is  a  clear  case  in  which  the  part  is  greater 
than  the  whole. 

Rob  would  have  liked  to  wish  Miss  Abinger  a 
happy  Christmas  too,  but  the  words  would  not 
form,  and  had  she  chosen  she  could  have  left  him 
looking  very  foolish.  But  Mary  had  blushed 
slightly  when  she  caught  sight  of  Rob  standing 
helplessly  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  this 
meant  that  she  understood  what  he  was  doing 
there.  A  girl  can  overlook  a  great  deal  in  a  man 
who  admires  her.  She  feels  happier.  It  increases 
her  self-respect.  So  Miss  Abinger  told  him  that, 
if  the  frost  held,  the  snow  would  soon  harden,  but 
if  a  thaw  came  it  would  melt;  and  then  Rob  tore 
out  of  himself  the  words  that  tended  to  slip  back 
as  they  reached  his  tongue. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  could  have  done  it,"  he  said 
feebly,  beginning  at  the  end  of  what  he  had  meant 
to  say.     There  he  stuck  again. 

Mary  knew  what  he  spoke  of,  and  her  pale  face 
coloured.  She  shrank  from  talking  of  "  The  Scorn 
of  Scorns." 

"  Please  don't  let  that  trouble  you,"  she  said,  with 

108 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

an  effort.  "  I  was  really  only  a  schoolgirl  when  I 
wrote  it,  and  Miss  Meredith  got  it  printed  recently 
as  a  birthday  surprise  for  me.  I  assure  you  I 
would  never  have  thought  of  publishing  it  myself 
for  —  for  people  to  read.  Schoolgirls,  you  know, 
Mr.  Angus,  are  full  of  such  silly  sentiment." 

A  breeze  of  indignation  shook  "  No,  No  I "  out 
of  Rob,  but  Mary  did  not  heed. 

"  I  know  better  now,"  she  said ;  "  indeed,  not 
even  you,  the  hardest  of  my  critics,  sees  more 
clearly  than  I  the  —  the  childishness  of  the  book." 

Miss  Abinger's  voice  faltered  a  very  little,  and 
Rob's  sufferings  allowed  him  to  break  out. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  look  of  appeal  in  his  eyes 
that  were  as  grey  as  hers,  "  it  was  a  madness  that 
let  me  write  like  that.  '  The  Scorn  of  Scorns '  is 
the  most  beautiful,  the  tenderest  —  "  He  stuck 
once  more.  Miss  Abinger  could  have  helped  him 
again,  but  she  did  not.  Perhaps  she  wanted  him 
to  go  on.  He  could  not  do  so,  but  he  repeated 
what  he  had  said  already,  which  may  have  been 
the  next  best  thing  to  do. 

"  You  do  surprise  me  now,  Mr.  Angus,"  said 
Mary,  light-hearted  all  at  once,  "  for  you  know  you 
scarcely  wrote  like  that." 

"  Ah,  but  I  have  read  the  book  since  I  saw  you," 
Rob  blurted  out,  "and  that  has  made  such  a 
difference." 

A  wiser  man  might  have  said  a  more  foolish 

109 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

thing.  Mary  looked  up  smiling.  Her  curiosity 
was  aroused,  and  at  once  she  became  merciless. 
Hitherto  she  had  only  tried  to  be  kind  to  Rob,  but 
now  she  wanted  to  be  kind  to  herself. 

"  You  can  hardly  have  re-read  my  story  since  last 
night,"  she  said,  shaking  her  fair  head  demurely. 

"  I  read  it  all  through  the  night,"  exclaimed  Rob, 
in  such  a  tone  that  Mary  started.  She  had  no 
desire  to  change  the  conversation,  however;  she 
did  not  start  so  much  as  that. 

"  But  you  had  to  write  papa's  speech  ? "  she 
said. 

"  I  forgot  to  do  it,"  Rob  answered,  awkwardly. 
His  heart  sank,  for  he  saw  that  here  was  another 
cause  he  had  given  Miss  Abinger  to  dislike  him. 
Possibly  he  was  wrong.  There  may  be  extenu- 
ating circumstances  that  will  enable  the  best  of 
daughters  to  overlook  an  affront  to  her  father's 
speeches. 

"But  it  was  in  the  Mirror  I  read  it,"  said 
Mary. 

"  Was  it  ? "  said  Rob,  con-iderably  relieved. 
How  it  could  have  got  there  was  less  of  a  mystery 
to  him  than  to  her,  for  Protheroe  had  sub-edited 
so  many  speeches  to  tenants  that  in  an  emergency 
he  could  always  guess  at  what  the  landlords  said. 

"  It  was  rather  short,"  Mary  admitted,  "  com- 
pared with  the  report  in  the  Argus.  Papa 
thought  —  "     She  stopped  hastily. 

\io 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

"  He  thought  it  should  have  been  longer  ? " 
asked  Rob.  Then  before  he  had  time  to  think  of 
it,  he  had  told  her  of  his  first  meeting  with  the 
colonel. 

"  I  remember  papa  was  angry  at  the  time,"  Mary 
said,  "but  you  need  not  have  been  afraid  of  his 
recognizing  you  last  night.  He  did  recognize 
you." 

"  Did  he  ^  " 

"  Yes ;  but  you  were  his  guest." 

Rob  could  not  think  of  anything  more  to  say, 
and  he  saw  that  Mary  was  about  to  bid  him  good 
morning.  He  found  himself  walking  with  her  in 
the  direction  of  the  castle  gates. 

"  This  scenery  reminds  me  of  Scotland,"  he  said. 

"  I  love  it,"  said  Mary  (man's  only  excellence 
over  woman  is  that  his  awe  of  this  word  prevents 
his  using  it  so  lightly),  "  and  I  am  glad  that  I  shall 
be  here  until  the  season  begins." 

Rob  had  no  idea  what  the  season  was,  but  he 
saw  that  some  time  Mary  would  be  going  away, 
and  his  face  said,  what  would  he  do  then  *? 

"  Then  I  go  to  London  with  the  Merediths,"  she 
continued,  adding  thoughtfully,  "I  suppose  you 
mean  to  go  to  London,  Mr.  Angus  ?  My  brother 
says  that  all  literary  men  drift  there." 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,"  said  Rob. 

«  Soon  ? " 

"  Immediately,"  he  replied,  recklessly. 

Ill 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

They  reached  the  gates,  and,  as  Mary  held  out 
her  hand,  the  small  basket  was  tilted  upon  her  arm, 
and  a  card  fluttered  out. 

"  It  is  a  Christmas  card  a  little  boy  in  one  of 
those  houses  gave  me,"  she  said,  as  Rob  returned 
it  to  her.  "  Have  you  got  many  Christmas  cards 
to-day,  Mr.  Angus?  " 

"  None,"  said  Rob. 

"  Not  even  from  your  relatives  ?  "  asked  Mary, 
beginning  to  pity  him  more  than  was  necessary. 

"  I  have  no  relatives,"  he  replied ;  "  they  are  all 
dead." 

"  I  was  in  Scotland  two  summers  ago,"  Mary 
said,  very  softly,  "  at  a  place  called  Glen  Quharity ; 
papa  was  there  shooting.  But  I  don't  suppose  you 
know  it  ?  " 

"  Our  Glen  Quharity  I  "  exclaimed  Rob ;  "  why, 
you  must  have  passed  through  Thrums  *?  " 

"  We  were  several  times  in  Thrums.  Have  you 
been  there  ?  " 

"  I  was  born  in  it ;  I  was  never  thirty  miles  away 
from  it  until  I  came  here." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Mary,  "  then  you  must  be  the  lit- 
erary —  "     She  stopped  and  reddened. 

"The  literary  saw-miller,"  said  Rob,  finishing 
her  sentence ;  "  that  was  what  they  called  me,  I 
know,  at  Glen  Quharity  Lodge." 

Mary  looked  up  at  him  with  a  new  interest,  for 
when  she  was  there  Glen  Quharity  had  been  full 

1  12 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

of  the  saw-miller,  who  could  not  only  talk  in  Greek, 
but  had  a  reputation  for  tossing  the  caber. 

"  Papa  told  me  some  months  ago,"  she  said,  in 
surprise,  "  that  the  lite — ,  that  you  had  joined  the 
press  in  England,  but  he  evidently  did  not  know 
of  your  being  in  Silchester." 

"  But  how  could  he  have  known  anything  about 
me  ?  "  asked  Rob,  surprised  in  turn. 

"  This  is  so  strange,"  Mary  answered.  "  Why, 
papa  takes  credit  for  having  got  you  your  appoint- 
ment on  the  press." 

"  It  was  a  minister,  a  Mr.  Rorrison,  who  did 
that  for  me,"  said  Rob ;  "  indeed,  he  was  so  good 
that  I  could  have  joined  the  press  a  year  ago  by 
his  help,  had  not  circumstances  compelled  me  to 
remain  at  home." 

"  I  did  not  know  the  clergyman's  name,"  Mary 
said,  "  but  it  was  papa  who  spoke  of  you  to  him  first. 
Don't  you  remember  writing  out  this  clergyman's 
sermon  in  shorthand,  and  a  messenger's  coming  to 
you  for  your  report  on  horseback  next  day  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  said  Rob,  "  and  he  asked  me 
to  write  it  out  in  longhand  as  quickly  as  possible. 
That  was  how  I  got  to  know  Mr.  Rorrison ;  and, 
as  I  understood,  he  had  sent  for  the  report  of  the 
sermon,  on  hearing  accidentally  that  I  had  taken  it 
down,  because  he  had  some  reason  for  wanting  a 
copy  of  it." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  how  it  was  told  to  you  after- 

113 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

wards,"  Mary  said,  "  but  it  was  really  papa  who 
wanted  the  sermon." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  all  about  it,"  Rob  said, 
seeing  that  she  hesitated.  Colonel  Abinger  had  not 
seemed  to  him  the  kind  of  man  who  would  send  a 
messenger  on  horseback  about  the  country  in  quest 
of  sermons. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  Mary  explained,  "  that  it  arose 
out  of  a  wager.  This  clergyman  was  staying  at 
the  Lodge,  but  papa  was  the  only  other  person 
there  who  would  go  as  far  as  Thrums  to  hear  him 
preach.  I  was  not  there  that  year,  so  I  don't  know 
why  papa  went,  but  when  he  returned  he  told  the 
others  that  the  sermon  had  been  excellent.  There 
is  surely  an  English  church  in  Thrums,  for  I  am 
sure  papa  would  not  think  a  sermon  excellent  that 
was  preached  in  a  chapel  *?  " 

"  There  is,"  said  Rob ;  "  but  in  Thrums  it  is 
called  the  chapel." 

"  Well,  some  badinage  arose  out  of  papa's  eu- 
logy, and  it  ended  in  a  bet  that  he  could  not  tell 
the  others  what  this  fine  sermon  was  about.  He 
was  to  get  a  night  to  think  it  over.  Papa  took  the 
bet  a  little  rashly,  for  when  he  put  it  to  himself  he 
found  that  he  could  not  even  remember  the  text. 
As  he  told  me  afterwards  (here  Mary  smiled  a 
little),  he  had  a  general  idea  of  the  sermon,  but 
could  not  quite  put  it  into  words,  and  he  was  fear- 
ing that  he  would  lose  the  wager  (and  be  laughed 

114 


THE   ONE   WOMAN 

at,  which  always  vexes  papa),  when  he  heard  of 
your  report.  So  a  messenger  was  sent  to  Thrums 
for  it  —  and  papa  won  his  bet." 

"  But  how  did  Mr.  Rorrison  hear  of  my  report, 
then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  forgot ;  papa  told  him  afterwards,  and 
was  so  pleased  with  his  victory,  that  when  he  heard 
Mr.  Rorrison  had  influence  with  some  press  people, 
he  suggested  to  him  that  something  might  be  done 
for  you." 

"  This  is  strange,"  said  Rob,  "  and  perhaps  the 
strangest  thing  about  it  is  that  if  Colonel  Abinger 
could  identify  me  with  the  saw-miller  he  would  be 
sorry  that  he  had  interfered." 

Mary  saw  the  force  of  this  so  clearly  that  she 
could  not  contradict  him. 

"  Surely,"  she  said,  "  I  heard  when  I  was  at  the 
Lodge  of  your  having  a  niece,  and  that  you  and 
the  little  child  lived  alone  in  the  saw-mill  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Rob  answered,  hoarsely,  "  but  she  is 
dead.  She  wandered  from  home,  and  was  found 
dead  on  a  mountain-side." 

"  Was  it  long  ago  ?  "  asked  Mary,  very  softly. 

"  Only  a  few  months  ago,"  Rob  said,  making  his 
answer  as  short  as  possible,  for  the  death  of  Davy 
moved  him  still.     "  She  was  only  four  years  old." 

Mary's  hand  went  half-way  toward  his  involun- 
tarily. His  mouth  was  twitching.  He  knew  how 
good  she  was. 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  That  card,"  he  began,  and  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  would  you  care  to  have  it  ?  "  said  Mary. 

But  just  then  Colonel  Abinger  walked  into  them, 
somewhat  amazed  to  see  his  daughter  talking  to 
one  of  the  lower  orders.  Neither  Rob  nor  Mary 
had  any  inclination  to  tell  him  that  this  was  the 
Scotsman  he  had  befriended, 

"  This  is  Mr.  Angus,  papa,"  said  Mary,  "  who — 
who  was  with  us  last  night." 

"  Mr.  Angus  and  I  have  met  before,  I  think," 
replied  her  father,  recalling  the  fishing  episode. 
His  brow  darkened,  and  Rob  was  ready  for  any- 
thing, but  Colonel  Abinger  was  a  gentleman. 

"  I  always  wanted  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Angus," 
he  said,  with  an  effort,  "  to  ask  you  —  what  flies 
you  were  using  that  day  ^  " 

Rob  muttered  something  in  answer,  which  the 
colonel  did  not  try  to  catch.  Mary  smiled  and 
bowed,  and  the  next  moment  she  had  disappeared 
with  her  father  down  the  avenue. 

What  followed  cannot  be  explained.  When 
Rob  roused  himself  from  his  amazement  at  Mary 
Abinger's  having  been  in  Thrums  without  his  feel- 
ing her  presence,  something  made  him  go  a  icw 
yards  inside  the  castle  grounds,  and,  lying  lightly 
on  the  snow,  he  saw  the  Christmas  card.  He 
lifted  it  up  as  if  it  were  a  rare  piece  of  china,  and 
held  it  in  his  two  hands  as  though  it  were  a  bird 
which  might  escape.     He  did  not  know  whether 

116 


THE  ONE  WOMAN 

it  had  dropped  there  of  its  own  accord,  and  doubt 
and  transport  fought  for  victory  on  his  face.  At 
last  he  put  the  card  exultingly  into  his  pocket, 
his  chest  heaved,  and  he  went  toward  Silchester 
whistHng. 


117 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   GRAND    PASSION? 

One  of  the  disappointments  of  life  is  that  the  per- 
sons we  think  we  have  reason  to  dishke  are  sel- 
dom altogether  villains;  they  are  not  made  suffi- 
ciently big  for  it.  When  we  can  go  to  sleep  in  an 
armchair  this  ceases  to  be  a  trouble,  but  it  vexed 
Mary  Abinger.  Her  villain  of  fiction,  on  being 
haughtily  rejected,  had  at  least  left  the  heroine's 
home  looking  a  little  cowed.  Sir  Clement  in  the 
same  circumstances  had  stayed  on. 

The  colonel  had  looked  forward  resentfully  for 
years  to  meeting  this  gentleman  again,  and  giving 
him  a  piece  of  his  stormy  mind.  When  the  op- 
portunity came,  however,  Mary's  father  instead 
asked  his  unexpected  visitor  to  remain  for  a  week. 
Colonel  Abinger  thought  he  was  thus  magnanimous 
because  his  guest  had  been  confidential  with  him, 
but  it  was  perhaps  rather  because  Sir  Clement  had 
explained  how  much  he  thought  of  him.  To  dis- 
like our  admirers  is  to  be  severe  on  ourselves,  and 
is  therefore  not  common. 

The  Dome  had  introduced  the  colonel  to  Sir 
Clement  as  well  as  to  Rob.     One  day  Colonel 

118 


THE  GRAND   PASSIONS 

Abinger  had  received  by  letter  from  a  little  hos- 
telry in  the  neighbourhood  the  compliments  of  Sir 
Clement  Dowton,  and  a  request  that  he  might  be 
allowed  to  fish  in  the  preserved  water.  All  that 
Mary's  father  knew  of  Dowton  at  that  time  was 
that  he  had  been  lost  to  English  society  for  half  a 
dozen  years.  Once  in  many  months  the  papers 
spoke  of  him  as  serving  under  Gordon  in  China, 
as  being  taken  captive  by  an  African  king,  as  hav- 
ing settled  down  in  a  cattle  ranche  in  the  vicinity 
of  Manitoba.  His  lawyers  were  probably  aware 
of  his  whereabouts  oftener  than  other  persons.  All 
that  society  knew  was  that  he  hated  England  be- 
cause one  of  its  daughters  had  married  a  curate. 
The  colonel  called  at  the  inn,  and  found  Sir  Clem- 
ent such  an  attentive  listener  that  he  thought  the 
baronet's  talk  quite  brilliant.  A  few  days  after- 
wards the  stranger's  traps  were  removed  to  the 
castle,  and  then  he  met  Miss  Abinger,  who  was 
recently  home  from  school.  He  never  spoke  to 
her  of  his  grudge  against  England. 

It  is  only  the  unselfish  men  who  think  much, 
otherwise  Colonel  Abinger  might  have  pondered  a 
little  over  his  guest.  Dowton  had  spoken  of  him- 
self as  an  enthusiastic  angler,  yet  he  let  his  flies 
drift  down  the  stream  like  fallen  leaves.  He  never 
remembered  to  go  a-fishing  until  it  was  suggested 
to  him.  He  had  given  his  host  several  reasons  for 
his  long  absence  from  his  property,  and  told  him 

119 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

he  did  not  want  the  world  to  know  that  he  was 
back  in  England,  as  he  was  not  certain  whether  he 
would  remain.  The  colonel  at  his  request  intro- 
duced him  to  the  few  visitors  at  the  castle  as  Mr. 
Dowton,  and  was  surprised  to  discover  afterwards 
that  they  all  knew  his  real  name. 

"  I  assure  you,"  Mary's  father  said  to  him,  "  that 
they  have  not  learned  it  from  me.  It  is  incompre- 
hensible how  a  thing  like  that  leaks  out." 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Dowton,  who,  how- 
ever, should  have  understood  it,  as  he  had  taken 
the  visitors  aside  and  told  them  his  real  name  him- 
self He  seemed  to  do  this  not  of  his  free  will,  but 
because  he  could  not  help  it. 

It  never  struck  the  colonel  that  his  own  society 
was  not  what  tied  Sir  Clement  to  Dome  Castle  ; 
for  widowers  with  grown-up  daughters  are  in  a 
foreign  land  without  interpreters.  On  that  morn' 
ing  when  the  baronet  vanished,  nevertheless,  the 
master  of  Dome  Castle  was  the  only  person  in  it 
who  did  not  think  that  it  would  soon  lose  its  mis- 
tress, mere  girl  though  she  was. 

Sir  Clement's  strange  disappearance  was  ac- 
counted for  at  the  castle,  where  alone  it  was 
properly  known,  in  various  ways.  Miss  Abinger, 
in  the  opinion  of  the  servants'  hall,  held  her  head 
so  high  that  there  he  was  believed  to  have  run 
away  because  she  had  said  him  no.  Miss  Abinger 
excused  and  blamed  him  alternately  to  herself 

120 


THE   GRAND   PASSION? 

until  she  found  a  dull  satisfaction  in  looking  upon 
him  as  the  villain  he  might  have  been  had  his  high 
forehead  spoken  true.  As  for  the  colonel,  he  ordered 
Mary  (he  had  no  need)  never  to  mention  the  fel- 
low's name  to  him,  but  mentioned  it  frequently 
himself 

Nothing  had  happened,  so  far  as  was  known,  to 
disturb  the  baronet's  serenity ;  neither  friends  nor 
lawyers  had  been  aware  that  he  was  in  England, 
and  he  had  received  no  letters.  Mary  remembered 
his  occasional  fits  of  despondency,  but  on  the  whole 
he  seemed  to  revel  in  his  visit,  and  had  never  looked 
happier  than  the  night  before  he  went.  His  traps 
were  sent  by  the  colonel  in  a  fury  to  the  little  inn 
where  he  had  at  first  taken  up  his  abode,  but  it  was 
not  known  at  the  castle  whether  he  ever  got  them. 
Some  months  afterwards  a  letter  from  him  appeared 
in  the  ^ijnes^  dated  from  Suez,  and  from  then  until 
he  reappeared  at  Dome  Castle,  the  colonel,  except 
when  he  spoke  to  himself,  never  heard  the  baronet's 
name  mentioned. 

Sir  Clement  must  have  been  very  impulsive,  for 
on  returning  to  the  castle  he  had  intended  to  treat 
Miss  Abinger  with  courteous  coldness,  as  if  she 
had  been  responsible  for  his  flight,  and  he  had  not 
seen  her  again  for  ten  minutes  before  he  asked  her 
to  marry  him.  He  meant  to  explain  his  conduct 
in  one  way  to  the  colonel,  and  he  explained  it  in 
quite  another  way. 

121 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

When  Colonel  Abinger  took  him  into  the 
smoking-room  on  Christmas  Eve  to  hear  what  he 
had  to  say  for  himself,  the  baronet  sank  into  a 
chair,  with  a  look  of  contentment  on  his  beautiful 
face  that  said  he  was  glad  to  be  there  again.  Then 
the  colonel  happened  to  mention  Mary's  name  in 
such  a  way  that  he  seemed  to  know  of  Sir  Clement's 
proposal  to  her  three  years  earlier.  At  once  the 
baronet  began  another  story  from  the  one  he  had 
meant  to  tell,  and  though  he  soon  discovered  that 
he  had  credited  his  host  with  a  knowledge  the 
colonel  did  not  possess,  it  was  too  late  to  draw 
back.  So  Mary's  father  heard  to  his  amazement 
that  the  baronet  had  run  away  because  he  was  in 
love  with  Miss  Abinger.  Colonel  Abinger  had 
read  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns,"  but  it  had  taught  him 
nothing. 

"  She  was  only  a  schoolgirl  when  you  saw  her 
last,"  he  said,  in  bewilderment ;  "  but  I  hardly  see 
how  that  should  have  made  you  fly  the  house  like 
—  yes,  like  a  thief" 

Dowton  looked  sadly  at  him. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  speaking  as  if  with  re- 
luctance, "that  in  any  circumstances  I  should  be 
justified  in  telling  you  the  whole  miserable  story. 
Can  you  not  guess  it'?  When  I  came  here  I  was 
not  a  free  man." 

"  You  were  already  married  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  was  engaged  to  be  married." 

122 


THE  GRAND   PASSION? 

"  Did  Mary  know  anything  of  this  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  that  engagement,  and  but  little,  I 
think,  of  the  attachment  that  grew  up  in  my  heart 
for  her.     I  kept  that  to  myself" 

"  She  was  too  young,"  said  the  wise  colonel,  "  to 
think  of  such  things  then;  and  even  now  I  do  not 
see  why  you  should  have  left  us  as  you  did." 

Sir  Clement  rose  to  his  feet  and  paced  the  room 
in  great  agitation. 

"  It  is  hard,"  he  said  at  last,  "  to  speak  of  such  a 
thing  to  another  man.  But  let  me  tell  you,  Abinger, 
that  when  I  was  with  you  three  years  ago  there 
were  times  when  I  thought  I  would  lose  my  reason. 
Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  have  such  a  passion  as 
that  raging  in  your  heart  and  yet  have  to  stifle  it  ? 
There  were  whole  nights  when  I  walked  up  and 
down  my  room  till  dawn.  I  trembled  every  time 
I  saw  Miss  Abinger  alone  lest  I  should  say  that  to 
her  which  I  had  no  right  to  say.  Her  voice  alone 
was  sufficient  to  unman  me.  I  felt  that  my  only 
safety  was  in  flight." 

"  I  have  run  away  from  a  woman  myself  in  my 
time,"  the  colonel  said,  with  a  grim  chuckle. 
*'  There  are  occasions  when  it  is  the  one  thing  to 
do,  but  this  was  surely  not  one  of  them,  if  Mary 
knew  nothing." 

"Sometimes  I  feared  she  did  know  that  I  cared 
for  her.  That  is  a  hard  thing  to  conceal,  and. 
besides,  I  suppose  I  felt  so  wretched  that  I  was  not 

123 


WHEN  A  MAN'S   SINGLE 

in  a  condition  to  act  rationally.  When  I  left  the 
castle  that  day  I  had  not  the  least  intention  of  not 
returning." 

"  And  since  then  you  have  been  half  round  the 
world  again  ?     Are  you  married  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  I  am  to  understand  —  " 

"  That  she  is  dead,"  said  Sir  Clement,  in  a  low 
voice. 

There  was  a  silence  between  them,  which  was  at 
last  broken  by  the  colonel. 

"  What  you  have  told  me,"  he  said,  "  is  a  great 
surprise,  more  especially  with  regard  to  my 
daughter.  Being  but  a  child  at  the  time,  however, 
she  could  not,  I  am  confident,  have  thought  of  you 
in  any  other  light  than  as  her  father's  friend.  It 
is,  of  course,  on  that  footing  that  you  return  now  *?  " 

"As  her  father's  friend,  certainly,  I  hope,"  said 
the  baronet,  firmly,  "  but  I  wish  to  tell  you  now 
that  my  regard  for  her  has  never  changed.  I  con- 
fess I  would  have  been  afraid  to  come  back  to  you 
had  not  my  longing  to  see  her  again  given  me 
courage." 

"  She  has  not  the  least  idea  of  this,"  murmured 
the  colonel,  "  not  the  least.  The  fact  is  that  Mary 
has  lived  so  quietly  with  me  here  that  she  is  still  a 
child.  Miss  Meredith,  whom  I  daresay  you  have 
met  here,  has  been  almost  her  only  friend,  and  I 
am  quite  certain  that  the  thought  of  marriage  has 

124 


THE   GRAND   PASSION? 

never  crossed  their  minds.  If  you,  or  even  if  I, 
were  to  speak  of  such  a  thing  to  Mary  it  would 
only  frighten  her." 

"  I  should  not  think  of  speaking  to  her  on  the 
subject  at  present,"  the  baronet  interposed,  rather 
hurriedly,  "but  I  thought  it  best  to  explain  my 
position  to  you.  You  know  what  I  am,  that  I  have 
been  almost  a  vagrant  on  the  face  of  the  earth  since 
I  reached  manhood,  but  no  one  can  see  more  clearly 
than  I  do  myself  how  unworthy  I  am  of  her." 

"  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you,"  said  the  colonel, 
taking  the  baronet's  hand,  "  that  I  used  to  like 
you,  Dowton,  and  indeed  I  know  no  one  whom  I 
would  prefer  for  a  son-in-law.  But  you  must  be 
cautious  with  Mary." 

"  I  shall  be  very  cautious,"  said  the  baronet ;  in- 
deed there  is  no  hurry,  none  whatever." 

Colonel  Abinger  would  have  brought  the  con- 
versation to  a  close  here,  but  there  was  something 
more  for  Dowton  to  say. 

'*  I  agree  with  you,"  he  said,  forgetting,  perhaps, 
that  the  colonel  had  not  spoken  on  this  point, 
*'  that  Miss  Abinger  should  be  kept  ignorant  foi 
the  present  of  the  cause  that  drove  me  on  that 
former  occasion  from  the  castle." 

"  It  is  the  wisest  course  to  adopt,"  said  the 
colonel,  looking  as  if  he  had  thought  the  matter 
out  step  by  step. 

"The  only  thing  I  am  doubtful  about,"  con- 

125 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

tinued  Dowton,  "  is  whether  Miss  Abinger  will 
not  think  that  she  is  entitled  to  some  explanation. 
She  cannot,  I  fear,  have  forgotten  the  circumstances 
of  my  departure." 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  score,"  said  the 
colonel ;  "  the  best  proof  that  Mary  gave  the  mat- 
ter little  thought,  even  at  the  time,  is  that  she  did 
not  speak  of  it  to  me.  Sweet  seventeen  has  always 
a  short  memory." 

"  But  I  have  sometimes  thought  since  that  Miss 
Abinger  did  care  for  me  a  little,  in  which  case  she 
would  have  unfortunate  cause  to  resent  my  flight." 

While  he  spoke  the  baronet  was  looking  anx- 
iously into  the  colonel's  face. 

"  I  can  give  you  my  word  for  it,"  said  the 
colonel,  cheerily,  "  that  she  did  not  give  your  dis- 
appearance two  thoughts ;  and  now  I  much  ques- 
tion whether  she  will  recognize  you." 

Dowton's  face  clouded,  but  the  other  misinter- 
preted the  shadow. 

"  So  put  your  mind  at  rest,"  said  the  colonel, 
kindly,  "  and  trust  an  old  stager  like  myself  for 
being  able  to  read  into  a  woman's  heart." 

Shortly  afterwards  Colonel  Abinger  left  his 
guest,  and  for  nearly  five  minutes  the  baronet 
looked  dejected.  It  is  sometimes  advantageous  to 
hear  that  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  watched  the 
moon  rise  has  forgotten  your  very  name,  but  it  is 
never  complimentary.     By  and  by,  however,  Sir 

126 


THE  GRAND   PASSION? 

Clement's  sense  of  humour  drove  the  gloom  from 
his  chiselled  face,  and  a  glass  bracket  over  the  man- 
telpiece told  him  that  he  was  laughing  heartily. 

It  was  a  small  breakfast  party  at  the  castle  next 
morning,  Sir  Clement  and  Greybrooke  being  the 
only  guests,  but  the  baronet  was  so  gay  and  morose 
by  turns  that  he  might  have  been  two  persons.  In 
the  middle  of  a  laugh  at  some  remark  of  the  cap 
tain's,  he  would  break  off  with  a  sigh,  and  imme- 
diately after  sadly  declining  another  cup  of  coffee 
from  Mary,  he  said  something  humorous  to  her 
father.  The  one  mood  was  natural  to  him  and  the 
other  forced,  but  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
decide  which  was  which.  It  is,  however,  one  of 
the  hardest  things  in  life  to  remain  miserable  for 
any  length  of  time  on  a  stretch.  When  Dowton 
found  himself  alone  with  Mary  his  fingers  were 
playing  an  exhilarating  tune  on  the  window-sill, 
but  as  he  looked  at  her  his  hands  fell  to  his  side, 
and  there  was  pathos  in  his  fine  eyes.  Drawn  to- 
ward her,  he  took  a  step  forward,  but  Miss  Abinger 
said  "  No  *'  so  decisively  that  he  stopped  irresolute. 

"  I  shall  be  leaving  the  castle  in  an  hour,"  Sir 
Clement  said,  slowly. 

"  Papa  told  me,"  said  Mary,  *'  that  he  had  pre- 
vailed upon  you  to  remain  for  a  week." 

"  He  pressed  me  to  do  so,  and  I  consented,  but 
you  have  changed  everything  since  then.  Ah, 
Mary  —  " 

127 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  Miss  Abinger,"  said  Mary. 

"  Miss  Abinger,  if  you  would  only  listen  to 
what  I  have  to  say.  I  can  explain  everything, 
I— ' 

"  There  is  nothing  to  explain,"  said  Mary,  "  no- 
thing that  I  have  either  a  right  or  a  desire  to  hear. 
Please  not  to  return  to  this  subject  again.  I  said 
everything  there  was  to  say  last  night." 

The  baronet's  face  paled,  and  he  bowed  his  head 
in  deep  dejection.  His  voice  was  trembling  a 
little,  and  he  observed  it  with  gratification  as  he 
answered  — 

"  Then,  I  suppose,  I  must  bid  you  good-bye  ?  " 

"Good-bye,"  said  Mary.  "Does  papa  know 
you  are  going  *?  " 

"  I  promised  him  to  stay  on,"  said  Sir  Clement, 
"  and  I  can  hardly  expect  him  to  forgive  me  if  I 
change  my  mind." 

This  was  put  almost  in  the  form  of  a  question, 
and  Mary  thought  she  understood  it. 

"  Then  you  mean  to  remain  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  compel  me  to  go,"  he  replied,  dolefully. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Mary,  "  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  your  going  or  stayfng.'' 

"But  it  —  it  would  hardly  do  for  me  to  re- 
main after  what  took  place  last  night,"  said  the 
baronet,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was  open  to  con- 
tradiction. 

For  the   first  time  in  the   conversation   Mary 

128 


THE  GRAND   PASSION? 

smiled.  It  was  not,  however,  the  smile  every  man 
would  care  to  see  at  his  own  expense. 

"  If  you  were  to  go  now,"  she  said,  "  you  would 
not  be  fulfilling  your  promise  to  papa,  and  I  know 
that  men  do  not  like  to  break  their  word  to  —  to 
other  men." 

"  Then  you  think  I  ought  to  stay  *?  "  asked  Sir 
Clement,  eagerly. 

"  It  is  for  you  to  think,"  said  Mary. 

"  Perhaps,  then,  I  ought  to  remain  — for  Colonel 
Abinger's  sake,"  said  the  baronet. 

Mary  did  not  answer. 

"  Only  for  a  itw  days,"  he  continued,  almost 
appealingly. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mary. 

"  And  you  won't  think  the  worse  of  me  for  it*?  " 
asked  Dowton,  anxiously.  "  Of  course,  if  I  were 
to  consult  my  own  wishes  I  would  go  now.  but  as 
I  promised  Colonel  Abinger  —  " 

"  You  will  remain  out  of  consideration  for  papa. 
How  could  I  think  worse  of  you  for  that  ?  " 

Mary  rose  to  leave  the  room,  and  as  Sir  Clement 
opened  the  door  for  her  he  said  — 

"  We  shall  say  nothing  of  all  this  to  Colonel 
Abinger  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  certainly  not,"  said  Mary. 

She  glanced  up  in  his  face,  her  mouth  twisted 
slightly  to  one  side,  as  it  had  a  habit  of  doing  when 
she  felt  disdainful,  and  the  glory  of  her  beauty  filled 

129 


WHEN   A   MANS   SINGLE 

him  of  a  sudden.  The  baronet  pushed  the  door 
close  and  turned  to  her  passionately,  a  film  over 
his  eyes,  and  his  hands  outstretched. 

"  Mary,"  he  cried,  "  is  there  no  hope  for  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mary,  opening  the  door  for  herself, 
and  passing  out. 

"  Sir  Clement  stood  there  motionless  for  a  minute. 
Then  he  crossed  to  the  fireplace,  and  sank  into  a 
luxuriously  cushioned  chair.  The  sunlight  came 
back  to  his  noble  face. 

"  This  is  grand,  glorious,"  he  murmured,  in  an 
ecstasy  of  enjoyment. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  the  baronet's  behaviour 
was  a  little  peculiar.  Occasionally  at  meals  he 
seemed  to  remember  that  a  rejected  lover  ought 
not  to  have  a  good  appetite.  If,  when  he  was 
smoking  in  the  grounds,  he  saw  Mary  approaching, 
he  covertly  dropped  his  cigar.  When  he  knew 
that  she  was  sitting  at  a  window  he  would  pace  up 
and  down  the  walk  with  his  head  bent  as  if  life 
had  lost  its  interest  to  him.  By  and  by  his  mind 
wandered,  on  these  occasions,  to  more  cheerful 
matters,  and  he  would  start  to  find  that  he  had 
been  smiling  to  himself  and  swishing  his  cane  play- 
fully, like  a  man  who  walked  on  air.  It  might 
have  been  said  of  him  that  he  tried  to  be  miserable 
and  found  it  hard  work. 

Will,  who  discovered  that  the  baronet  did  not 
know  what  1.  b.  w.  meant,  could  not,  nevertheless, 

130 


THE  GRAND   PASSIONS 

despise  a  man  who  had  shot  lions,  but  he  never 
had  quite  the  same  respect  for  the  king  of  beasts 
again.  As  for  Greybrooke,  he  rather  liked  Sir 
Clement,  because  he  knew  that  Nell  (in  her  own 
words)  "  loathed,  hated,  and  despised  "  him. 

Greybrooke  had  two  severe  disappointments  that 
holiday,  both  of  which  were  to  be  traced  to  the 
capricious  Nell.  It  had  dawned  on  him  that  she 
could  not  help  liking  him  a  little  if  she  saw  him 
take  a  famous  jump  over  the  Dome,  known  to 
legend  as  the  "  Robber's  Leap."  The  robber  had 
lost  his  life  in  trying  to  leap  the  stream,  but  the 
captain  practised  in  the  castle  grounds  until  he  felt 
that  he  could  clear  it.  Then  he  formally  invited 
Miss  Meredith  to  come  and  see  him  do  it,  and  she 
told  him  instead  that  he  was  wicked.  The  captain 
and  Will  went  back  silently  to  the  castle,  wonder- 
ing what  on  earth  she  would  like. 

Greybrooke's  other  disappointment  was  still 
more  grievous.  One  evening  he  and  Will  returned 
to  the  castle  late  for  dinner,  an  offence  the  colonel 
found  it  hard  to  overlook,  although  they  were  going 
back  to  school  on  the  following  day.  Will  reached 
the  dining-room  first,  and  his  father  frowned  on 
him. 

"  You  are  a  quarter  of  an  hour  late,  William," 
said  the  colonel,  sternly.  "  Where  have  you 
been  ?  " 

Will  hesitated. 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

*'  Do  you  remember,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  a  man 
called  Angus,  who  was  here  reporting  on  Christmas 
Eve?" 

Mary  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork. 

"  A  painfully  powerful-looking  man,"  said  Dow- 
ton,  "  in  hob-nailed  boots.     I  remember  him." 

"  Well,  we  have  been  calling  on  him,"  said 
Will. 

"  Calling  on  him,  calling  on  that  impudent  news- 
paper man  I  "  exclaimed  the  colonel ;  "  what  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Greybrooke  had  a  row  with  him  some  time 
ago,"  said  Will ;  "  I  don't  know  what  about,  be- 
cause it  was  private ;  but  the  captain  has  been 
looking  for  the  fellow  for  a  fortnight  to  lick  him 
—  I  mean  punish  him.  We  came  upon  him  two 
days  ago,  near  the  castle  gates." 

Here  Will  paused,  as  if  he  would  prefer  to  jump 
what  followed. 

"  And  did  your  friend  '  lick  '  him  then  ?  "  asked 
the  colonel,  at  which  Will  shook  his  head. 

"  Why  not*?  "  asked  Sir  Clement. 

•*Well,"  said  Will,  reluctantly,  "the  fellow 
wouldn't  let  him.  He  —  he  lifted  Greybrooke  up  in 
his  arms,  and  —  and  dropped  him  over  the  hedge." 

Mary  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  The  beggar  —  I  mean  the  fellow  —  must  have 
muscles  like  ivy  roots,"  Will  blurted  out,  ad- 
miringly. 

132 


OS 


i4  ;^ 


h 

h 

CO 


\V   II 


M^VJ\  D 


SINGLE 


called  A 
Eve'^ 


-'  A 


to: 


■^^ 


ne  said,  at  a  man 

•  reporting  on  Christmas 


an,"  said  Dow- 
mber  him." 
'VI  him,"  said 

impudent  news- 
/lonel;  "  what  do 


o,  ■  iaiU 


1.    UUI 


'  .use  it  was  piivace;  bu 
^  Jooking  for  the  fellow  fo 
^  '..J — I  mean  punish  him 
'^  Sdays  ago,  near  the  r 
i  ^    Here  Will  pa>: 


cv 


_what  foIloNv 
O     "Andd 
^the  colonel,  at  w 

"  Why  not "?  "  askeo 
«Well,"  said    Will. 
wouldn't  let  him.   He  —  h 
his  arms,  and  —  and  drop, 
Mary  could  not  help  I;: 
"  The  beggar  —  I  meai 
muscles  like    ivy  roots," 
miringly. 


VV 


1  him  some  time 
■w  what  about,  be- 
captain  has  been 
night  to  lick  him 
rne  upon  him  two 

prefer  to  jump 

vcd 


y,    '^the   fellow 

Gn^ybrooke  up  in 

n  over  the  hedge." 

V  —  must  have 
blurted   out,  ad- 


132 


THE   GRAND   PASSION? 

"  I  fancy,"  said  Dowton,  "  that  I  have  seen  hhn 
near  the  gates  several  times  during  the  last  week." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  the  colonel,  shortly.  "  I 
caught  him  poaching  in  the  Dome  some  months 
ago.     There  is  something  bad  about  that  man." 

**  Papa ! "  said  Mary. 

At  this  moment  Greybrooke  entered. 

"  So,  Mr.  Greybrooke,"  said  the  colonel,  "  I  hear 
you  nave  been  in  Silchester  avenging  an  insult" 

The  captain  looked  at  Will,  who  nodded. 

"  I  went  there,  admitted  Greybrooke,  blushing, 
"  to  horsewhip  a  reporter  fellow,  but  he  had  run 
away." 

*'  Run  away  ?  " 

*'  Yes.  Did  not  Will  tell  you  ?  We  called  at 
the  Mirror  office,  and  were  told  that  Angus  had 
bolted  to  London  two  days  ago." 

"  And  the  worst  of  it,"  interposed  Will,  "  is  that 
he  ran  off  without  paying  his  landlady's  bill." 

*'  I  knew  that  man  was  a  rascal,"  exclaimed  the 
colonel. 

Mary  flushed 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  sai^ 

"  You  don't  believe  it,"  repeated  her  father, 
angrily ;  "  and  why  not,  pray  *?  " 

"  Because  —  because  I  don't,"  said  Mary. 


133 


CHAPTER   VIII 

IN   FLEET  STREET 

Mary  was  wrong.  It  was  quite  true  that  Rob  had 
run  away  to  London  without  paying  his  landlady's 
bill. 

The  immediate  result  of  his  meeting  with  Miss 
Abinger  had  been  to  make  him  undertake  double 
work,  and  not  do  it.  Looking  in  at  shop-windows, 
where  he  saw  hats  that  he  thought  would  just  suit 
Mary  (he  had  a  good  deal  to  learn  yet),  it  came 
upon  him  that  he  was  wasting  his  time.  Then  he 
hurried  home,  contemptuous  of  all  the  rest  of  Sil- 
chester,  to  write  an  article  for  a  London  paper, 
and  when  he  next  came  to  himself,  half  an  hour 
afterwards,  he  was  sitting  before  a  blank  sheet  of 
copy  paper.  He  began  to  review  a  book,  and 
found  himself  gazing  at  a  Christmas  card.  He 
tried  to  think  out  the  action  of  a  government,  and 
thought  out  a  ring  on  Miss  Abinger's  finger  in- 
stead. Three  nights  running  he  dreamt  that  he 
was  married,  and  woke  up  quaking. 

Without  much  misgiving  Rob  heard  it  said  in 
Silchester  that  there  was  some  one  staying  at  Dome 

1^ 


IN   FLEET   STREET 

Castle  who  was  to  be  its  mistress's  husband.  On 
discovering  that  they  referred  to  Dowton,  and  not 
being  versed  in  the  wonderful  ways  of  woman,  he 
told  himself  that  this  was  impossible.  A  cynic 
would  have  pointed  out  that  Mary  had  now  had 
several  days  in  which  to  change  her  mind.  Cynics 
are  persons  who  make  themselves  the  measure  of 
other  people. 

The  philosopher  who  remarked  that  the  obvious 
truths  are  those  which  are  most  often  missed,  was 
probably  referring  to  the  time  it  takes  a  man -to 
discover  that  he  is  in  love.  Women  are  quicker 
because  they  are  on  the  outlook.  It  took  Rob  two 
days,  and  when  it  came  upon  him  checked  his 
breathing.  After  that  he  bore  it  like  a  man.  An- 
other discovery  he  had  to  make  was  that,  after  all, 
he  was  nobody  in  particular.  This  took  him 
longer. 

Although  the  manner  of  his  going  to  London 
was  unexpected,  Rob  had  thought  out  solidly  the 
inducements  to  go.  Ten  minutes  or  so  after  he 
knew  that  he  wanted  to  marry  Mary  Abinger,  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  try  to  do  it.  The  only 
obstacles  he  saw  in  his  way  were,  that  she  was  not 
in  love  with  him,  and  lack  of  income.  Feeling 
that  he  was  an  uncommon  type  of  man  (if  people 
would  only  see  it)  he  resolved  to  remove  this  second 
difficulty  first.  The  saw-mill  and  the  castle  side 
by  side  did  not  rise  up  and  frighten  him,  and  for 

»35 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

the  time  he  succeeded  in  not  thinking  about 
Colonel  Abinger.  Nothing  is  hopeless  if  we  want 
it  very  much. 

Rob  calculated  that  if  he  remained  on  the  Mirror 
for  another  dozen  years  or  so,  and  Mr.  Licquorish 
continued  to  think  that  it  would  not  be  cheaper  to 
do  without  him,  he  might  reach  a  salary  of  ^200 
per  annum.  As  that  was  not  sufficient,  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  leave  Silchester. 

There  was  only  one  place  to  go  to.  Rob  thought 
of  London  until  he  felt  that  it  was  the  guardian 
from  whom  he  would  have  to  ask  Mary  Abinger ; 
he  pictured  her  there  during  the  season,  until 
London,  which  he  had  never  seen,  began  to  as- 
sume a  homely  aspect.  It  was  the  place  in  which 
he  was  to  win  or  lose  his  battle.  To  whom  is 
London  much  more  ?  It  is  the  clergyman's  name 
for  his  church,  the  lawyer's  for  his  ofBce,  the  poli- 
tician's for  St.  Stephen's,  the  cabman's  for  his 
stand. 

There  was  not  a  man  on  the  press  in  Silchester 
who  did  not  hunger  for  Fleet  Street,  but  they  were 
all  afraid  to  beard  it.  They  knew  it  as  a  rabbit- 
warren;  as  the  closest  street  in  a  city  where  the 
bootblack  has  his  sycophants,  and  you  have  to 
battle  for  exclusive  right  to  sweep  a  crossing.  The 
fight  forward  had  been  grimmer  to  Rob,  however, 
than  to  his  fellows,  and  he  had  never  been  quite 
beaten.     He  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  poverty 

136 


IN  FLEET  STREET 

was  like  an  old  friend.  There  was  only  one  jour- 
nalist in  London  whom  he  knew  even  by  name, 
and  he  wrote  to  him  for  advice.  This  was  Mr. 
John  Rorrison,  a  son  of  the  minister  whose  assist- 
ance had  brought  Rob  to  Silchester.  Rorrison 
was  understood  to  be  practically  editing  a  great 
London  newspaper,  which  is  what  is  understood 
of  a  great  many  journalists  until  you  make  in- 
quiries, but  he  wrote  back  to  Rob  asking  him 
v/hy  he  wanted  to  die  before  his  time.  You  col- 
lectors who  want  an  editor's  autograph  may  rely 
upon  having  it  by  return  of  post  if  you  write 
threatening  to  come  to  London  with  the  hope  that 
he  will  do  something  for  you.  Rorrison's  answer 
discomfited  Rob  for  five  minutes,  and  then,  going 
out,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mary  Abinger  in  the 
Merediths'  carriage.  He  tore  up  the  letter,  and 
saw  that  London  was  worth  risking. 

One  forenoon  Rob  set  out  for  the  office  to  tell 
Mr.  Licquorish  of  his  determination.  He  knew 
that  the  entire  staff  would  think  him  demented,  but 
he  could  not  see  that  he  was  acting  rashly.  He 
had  worked  it  all  out  in  his  mind,  and  even  tran- 
quilly faced  possible  starvation.  Rob  was  con- 
gratulating himself  on  not  having  given  way  to 
impulse  when  he  reached  the  railway  station. 

His  way  from  his  lodgings  to  the  office  led  past 
the  station,  and  as  he  had  done  scores  of  times  be- 
fore, he  went  inside      To  Rob  all  the  romance  of 

•137 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Silchester  was  concentrated  there ;  nothing  stirred 
him  so  much  as  a  panting  engine ;  the  shunting 
of  carriages,  the  bustle  of  passengers,  the  porters 
rattling  to  and  fro  with  luggage,  the  trains  twisting 
serpent-like  into  the  station  and  stealing  out  in  a 
glory  to  be  gone,  sent  the  blood  to  his  head.  On 
Saturday  nights,  when  he  was  free,  any  one  calling 
at  the  station  would  have  been  sure  to  find  him  on 
the  platform  from  which  the  train  starts  for  London. 
His  heart  had  sunk  every  time  it  went  off  without 
him. 

Rob  woke  up  from  a  dream  of  Fleet  Street  to 
see  the  porters  slamming  the  doors  of  the  London 
train.  He  saw  the  guard's  hand  upraised,  and 
heard  the  carriages  rattle  as  the  restive  engine  took 
them  unawares.  Then  came  the  warning  whistle, 
and  the  train  moved  off.  For  a  second  of  time 
Rob  felt  that  he  had  lost  London,  and  he  started 
forward.  Some  one  near  him  shouted,  and  then 
he  came  upon  the  train  all  at  once,  a  door  opened, 
and  he  shot  in.  When  he  came  to  himself,  Sil- 
chester was  a  cloud  climbing  to  the  sky  behind 
him,  and  he  was  on  his  way  to  London. 

Rob's  first  feeling  was  that  the  other  people  in 
the  carriage  must  know  what  he  had  done.  He 
was  relieved  to  find  that  his  companions  were  only 
an  old  gentleman  who  spoke  fiercely  to  his  news- 
paper because  it  was  reluctant  to  turn  inside  out, 
a  little  girl  who  had  got  in  at  Silchester  and  con- 

•38 


IN   FLEET   STREET 

sumed  thirteen  halfpenny  buns  before  she  was  five 
miles  distant  from  it,  and  a  young  woman,  evidently 
a  nurse,  with  a  baby  in  her  arms.     The  baby  was 
noisy  for  a  time,  but  Rob  gave  it  a  look  that  kept 
it  silent  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.     He  told  him- 
self that  he  would  get  out  at  the  first  station,  but 
when  the  train  stopped  at  it  he  sat  on.     He  twisted 
himself  into  a  corner  to  count  his  money  covertly, 
and  found  that  it  came  to  four  pounds  odd.     He 
also  took  the  Christmas  card  from  his  pocket,  but 
replaced  it  hastily,  feeling  that  the  old  gentleman 
and  the  little  girl  were  looking  at  him.     A  feeling 
of  elation  grew  upon  him  as  he  saw  that  whatever 
might  happen  afterwards  he  must  be  in  London 
shortly,  and  his  mind  ran  on  the  letters  he  would 
write  to  Mr.  Licquorish  and  his  landlady.     In  lieu 
of  his  ticket  he  handed  over  twelve  shillings  to  the 
guard,  under  whose  eyes  he  did  not  feel  comfort- 
able, and  he  calculated  that  he  owed  his  landlady 
over  two  pounds.     He  would  send  it  to  her  and  ask 
her  to  forward  his  things  to  London.     Mr.  Lic- 
quorish, however,  might  threaten  him  with  the  law 
if  he  did  not  return.     But  then  the  Mirror  owed 
Rob  several  pounds  at  that  moment,  and  if  he  did 
not  claim   it   in  person  it  would  remain   in  Mr. 
Licquorish's  pockets.     There  was  no  saying  how 
far  that  consideration  would  affect  the  editor.    Rob 
<^w  a  charge  of  dishonesty  rise  up  and  confront 
him,  and  he  drew  back  from  it.     A  moment  after- 


WHEN   A   MAN  S   SINGLE 

wards  he  looked  it  in  the  face,  and  it  receded.  He 
took  his  pipe  from  his  pocket. 

"  This  is  not  a  smoking  carriage,"  gasped  the 
little  girl,  so  promptly  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if 
she  had  been  waiting  her  opportunity  ever  since 
the  train  started.  Rob  looked  at  her.  She  seemed 
about  eight,  but  her  eye  was  merciless.  He  thrust 
his  pipe  back  into  its  case,  feeling  cowed  at  last. 

The  nurse  who  had  been  looking  at  Rob  and 
blushing  when  she  caught  his  eye,  got  out  with 
her  charge  at  a  side  station,  and  he  helped  her 
rather  awkwardly  to  alight  "  Don't  mention  it," 
he  said,  in  answer  to  her  thanks. 

"  Not  a  word ;  I'm  not  that  kind,"  she  replied, 
so  eagerly  that  he  started  back  in  alarm,  to  find  the 
little  girl  looking  suspiciously  at  him. 

As  Rob  stepped  out  of  the  train  at  King's  Cross 
he  realized  sharply  that  he  was  alone  in  the  world. 
He  did  not  know  where  to  go  now,  and  his  heart 
sank  for  a  time  as  he  paced  the  platform  irresolutely, 
feeling  that  it  was  his  last  link  to  Silchester.  He 
turned  into  the  booking-office  to  consult  a  time- 
table, and  noticed  against  the  wall  a  railway  map 
of  London.  For  a  long  time  he  stood  looking  at 
it,  and  as  he  traced  the  river,  the  streets  familiar 
to  him  by  name,  the  districts  and  buildings  which 
were  household  words  to  him,  he  felt  that  he  must 
live  in  London  somehow.  He  discovered  Fleet 
Street  in  the  map,  and  studied  the  best  way  of 

140 


IN   FLEET   STREET 

getting  to  it  from  King's  Cross.  Then  grasping 
his  stick  firmly,  he  took  possession  of  London  as 
calmly  as  he  could. 

Rob  never  found  any  difficulty  afterwards  in 
picking  out  the  shabby  eating-house  in  which  he 
had  his  first  meal  in  London.  Gray's  Inn  Road 
remained  to  him  always  its  most  romantic  street 
because  he  went  down  it  first.  He  walked  into  the 
roar  of  London  in  Holborn,  and  never  forgot  the 
alley  into  which  he  retreated  to  discover  if  he  had 
suddenly  become  deaf.  He  wondered  when  the 
crowd  would  pass.  Years  afterwards  he  turned 
into  Fetter  Lane,  and  suddenly  there  came  back 
to  his  mind  the  thoughts  that  had  held  him  as  he 
went  down  it  the  day  he  arrived  in  London. 

A  certain  awe  came  upon  Rob  as  he  went  down 
Fleet  Street  on  the  one  side,  and  up  it  on  the  other. 
He  could  not  resist  looking  into  the  faces  of  the 
persons  who  passed  him,  and  wondering  if  they 
edited  the  '^imes.  The  lean  man  who  was  in  such 
a  hurry  that  wherever  he  had  to  go  he  would  soon 
be  there,  might  be  a  man  of  letters  whom  Rob 
knew  by  heart,  but  perhaps  he  was  only  a  broken 
journalist  with  his  eye  on  half  a  crown.  The  mild- 
looking  man  whom  Rob  smiled  at  because,  when 
he  was  half  way  across  the  street,  he  lost  his  head 
and  was  chased  out  of  sight  by  half  a  dozen  han- 
som cabs,  was  a  war  correspondent  who  had  been 
so  long  in  Africa  that  the  perils  of  a  London  cross- 

141 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

ing  unmanned  him.  The  youth  who  was  on  his 
way  home  with  a  pork  chop  in  his  pocket  edited  a 
society  journal.  Rob  did  not  recognize  a  distin- 
guished poet  in  a  little  stout  man  who  was  looking 
pensively  at  a  barrowful  of  walnuts,  and  he  was 
mistaken  in  thinking  that  the  bearded  gentleman 
who  held  his  head  so  high  must  be  somebody  in 
particular.  Rob  observed  a  pale  young  man  gaz- 
ing wistfully  at  him,  and  wondered  if  he  was  a 
thief  or  a  sub-editor.  He  was  merely  an  aspirant 
who  had  come  to  London  that  morning  to  make 
his  fortune,  and  he  took  Rob  for  a  leader  writer  at 
the  least.  The  oflBces,  however,  and  even  the 
public  buildings,  the  shops,  the  narrowness  of  the 
streets,  all  disappointed  Rob.  The  houses  seemed 
squeezed  together  for  economy  of  space,  like  a 
closed  concertina.  Nothing  quite  fulfilled  his  ex- 
pectations but  the  big  letter  holes  in  the  district 
postal  offices.  He  had  not  been  sufficiently  long 
in  London  to  feel  its  greatest  charm,  which  has 
been  expressed  in  many  ways  by  poet,  wit,  busi- 
ness man  and  philosopher,  but  comes  to  this,  that 
it  is  the  only  city  in  the  world  in  whose  streets  you 
can  eat  penny  buns  without  people's  turning  round 
to  look  at  you. 

In  a  few  days  Rob  was  part  of  London.  His 
Silchester  landlady  had  forwarded  him  his  things, 
and  Mr.  Licquorish  had  washed  his  hands  of  him. 
The  editor  of  the  Mirror's  letter  amounted  ^o  a 

142 


IN   FLEET   STREET 

lament  that  a  man  whom  he  had  allowed  to  do 
two  men's  work  for  half  a  man's  wages  should 
have  treated  him  thus.  Mr.  Licquorish,  however, 
had  conceived  the  idea  of  "  forcing  "  John  Milton, 
and  so  saving  a  reporter,  and  he  did  not  insist  on 
Rob's  returning.  He  expressed  a  hope  that  his 
ex-reporter  would  do  well  in  London,  and  a  fear, 
amounting  to  a  conviction,  that  he  would  not. 
But  he  sent  the  three  pounds  due  to  him  in  wages, 
pointing  out,  justifiably  enough,  that,  strictly  speak- 
ing, Rob  owed  him  a  month's  salary.  Rob  had  not 
expected  such  liberality,  and  from  that  time  always 
admitted  that  there  must  have  been  a  heroic  vein 
in  Mr.  Licquorish  after  all. 

Rob  established  himself  in  a  little  back  room  in 
Islington,  so  small  that  a  fairly  truthful  journalist 
might  have  said  of  it,  in  an  article,  that  you  had  to 
climb  the  table  to  reach  the  fireplace,  and  to  lift 
out  the  easy-chair  before  you  could  get  out  at  the 
door.  The  room  was  over  a  grocer's  shop,  whose 
window  bore  the  announcement :  "  Eggs,  new  laid, 
is.  3d.;  eggs,  fresh,  is.  2d.;  eggs,  warranted,  is.; 
eggs,  lod."  A  shop  across  the  way  hinted  at  the 
reputation  of  the  neighbourhood  in  the  polite 
placard,  "  Trust  in  the  Lord :  every  other  person 
cash." 

The  only  ornament  Rob  added  to  the  room  was 
the  Christmas  card  in  a  frame.  He  placed  this  on 
his  mantelpiece  and  looked  at  it  frequently,  but 

143 


WHEN   A   MAN  S   SINGLE 

when  he  lieard  his  landlady  coming  he  slipped  it 
back  into  his  pocket.  Yet  he  would  have  liked 
at  times  to  have  the  courage  to  leave  it  there. 
Though  he  wanted  to  be  a  literary  man  he  began 
his  career  in  London  with  a  little  sense,  for  he 
wrote  articles  to  editors  instead  of  calling  at  the 
offices,  and  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  no  in- 
troductions. The  only  pressman  who  ever  made 
anything  by  insisting  on  seeing  the  editor,  was  one 
—  a  Scotsman,  no  doubt  —  who  got  him  alone  and 
threatened  to  break  his  head  if  he  did  not  find  an 
opening  for  him.  The  editor  saw  that  this  was  the 
sort  of  man  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  get  on, 
and  yielded. 

During  his  first  month  in  London,  Rob  wrote 
thirty  articles,  and  took  them  to  the  different  of- 
fices in  order  to  save  the  postage.  There  were 
many  other  men  in  the  streets  at  night  doing  the 
same  thing.  He  got  fifteen  articles  back  by  return 
of  post,  and  never  saw  the  others  again.  But  here 
was  the  stuff  Rob  was  made  of  The  thirty  hav- 
ing been  rejected,  he  dined  on  bread-and-cheese, 
and  began  the  thirty-first.  It  was  accepted  by  the 
Minotaur^  a  weekly  paper.  Rob  drew  a  sigh  of 
exultation  as  he  got  his  first  proof  in  London,  and 
remembered  that  he  had  written  the  article  in  two 
hours.  The  payment,  he  understood,  would  be 
two  pounds  at  least,  and  at  the  rate  of  two  articles 
a  day,  working  six  days  a  week,  this  would  mean 

144 


IN   FLEET   STREET 

over  six  hundred  a  year.  Rob  had  another  look 
at  the  Christmas  card,  and  thought  it  smiled. 
Every  man  is  a  fool  now  and  then. 

Except  to  his  landlady,  who  thought  that  he 
dined  out,  Rob  had  not  spoken  to  a  soul  since  he 
arrived  in  London.  To  celebrate  his  first  proof  he 
resolved  to  call  on  Rorrison.  He  had  not  done  so 
earlier  because  he  thought  that  Rorrison  would  not 
be  glad  to  see  him.  Though  he  had  kept  his  dis- 
appointments to  himself,  however,  he  felt  that  he 
must  remark  casually  to  some  one  that  he  was 
writing  for  the  Minotaur. 

Rorrison  had  chambers  at  the  top  of  one  of  the 
Inns  of  Court,  and  as  he  had  sported  his  oak,  Rob 
ought  not  to  have  knocked.  He  knew  no  better, 
however,  and  Rorrison  came  grumbling  to  the 
door.  He  was  a  full-bodied  man  of  middle-age, 
with  a  noticeably  heavy  chin,  and  wore  a  long 
dressing-gown. 

"  I'm  Angus  from  Silchester,"  Rob  explained. 

Rorrison's  countenance  fell.  His  occupation 
largely  consisted  in  avo|iding  literary  young  men, 
who,  he  knew,  were  thirsting  to  take  him  aside  and 
ask  him  to  get  them  sub-editorships. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  gloomily ;  "  come 
in." 

What  Rob  first  noticed  in  the  sitting-room  was 
that  it  was  all  in  shadow,  except  one  corner,  whose 
many  colours  dazzled  the  eye.     Suspended  over 

145 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

this  part  of  the  room  on  a  gas  bracket  was  a  great 
Japanese  umbrella  without  a  handle.  This  formed 
an  awning  for  a  large  cane-chair  and  a  tobacco- 
table,  which  also  held  a  lamp,  and  Rorrison  had 
been  lolling  on  the  chair  looking  at  a  Gladstone 
bag  on  the  hearthrug  until  he  felt  that  he  was  busy 
packing. 

"  Mind  the  umbrella,"  he  said  to  his  visitor. 

The  next  moment  a  little  black  hole  that  had 
been  widening  in  the  Japanese  paper  just  above 
the  lamp  cracked  and  broke,  and  a  tongue  of  flame 
swept  up  the  umbrella.  Rob  sprang  forward  in 
horror,  but  Rorrison  only  sighed. 

"  That  makes  the  third  this  week,"  he  said,  "  but 
let  it  blaze.  I  used  to  think  they  would  set  the 
place  on  fire,  but  somehow  they  don't  do  it.  Don't 
give  the  thing  the  satisfaction  of  seeming  to  notice 
it." 

The  umbrella  had  been  frizzled  in  a  second,  and 
its  particles  were  already  trembling  through  the 
room  like  flakes  of  snow. 

"  You  have  just  been  in  time  to  find  me,"  Rorri- 
son said ;  "  I  start  to-morrow  afternoon  for  Egypt 
in  the  special  correspondent  business." 

"  I  envy  you,"  said  Rob,  and  then  told  the  man- 
ner of  his  coming  to  London. 

"  It  was  a  mad  thing  to  do,"  said  Rorrison,  look- 
ing at  him,  not  without  approval,  "but  the  best  jour- 
nalists frequently  begin  in  that  way.     I  suppose 

146 


IN  FLEET  STREET 

you  have  been  besieging  the  newspaper  offices 
since  you  arrived ;  any  result  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  proof  from  the  Minotaur  this  evening," 
said  Rob. 

Rorrison  blew  some  rings  of  amoke  into  the  air 
and  ran  his  finger  through  them.  Then  he  turned 
proudly  to  Rob,  and  saw  that  Rob  was  looking 
proudly  at  him. 

"  Ah,  what  did  you  say  *?  "  asked  Rorrison. 

"  The  Minotaur  has  accepted  one  of  my  things," 
said  Rob. 

Rorrison  said  "  Hum,"  and  then  hesitated. 

"  It  is  best  that  you  should  know  the  truth,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  No  doubt  you  expect  to  be  paid  by 
the  Minotaur^  but  I  am  afraid  there  is  little  hope 
of  that  —  unless  you  dun  them.  A  friend  of  mine 
sent  them  something  lately,  and  Roper  (the  editor, 
you  know)  wrote  asking  him  for  more.  He  sent 
two  or  three  other  things,  and  then  called  at  the 
office,  expecting  to  be  paid." 

"  Was  he  not  ?  " 

*'  On  the  contrary,"  said  Rorrison,  "  Roper  asked 
him  for  the  loan  of  five  pounds." 

Rob's  face  grew  so  long  that  even  the  hardened 
Rorrison  tried  to  feel  for  him. 

"  You  need  not  let  an  experience  that  every 
one  has  to  pass  through  dishearten  you,"  he  said. 
"  There  are  only  about  a  dozen  papers  in  London, 
that  are  worth  writing  for,  but  I  can  give  you  a 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

good  account  of  them.  Not  only  do  they  pay 
handsomely,  but  the  majority  are  open  to  contri- 
butions from  any  one.  Don't  you  believe  what 
one  reads  about  newspaper  rings.  Everything  sent 
in  is  looked  at,  and  if  it  is  suitable  any  editor  is  glad 
to  have  it.  Men  fail  to  get  a  footing  on  the  press 
because  —  well,  as  a  rule,  because  they  are  stupid." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Rob, 
"  and  yet  I  had  thirty  articles  rejected  before  the 
Minotcmr  accepted  that  one." 

"  Yes,  and  you  will  have  another  thirty  rejected 
if  they  are  of  the  same  kind.  You  beginners  seem 
able  to  write  nothing  but  your  views  on  politics, 
and  your  reflections  on  art,  and  your  theories  of 
life,  which  you  sometimes  even  think  original. 
Editors  won't  have  that,  because  their  readers 
don't  want  it.  Every  paper  has  its  regular  staff  of 
leader-writers,  and  what  is  wanted  from  the  outside 
is  freshness.  An  editor  tosses  aside  your  column 
and  a  half  about  evolution,  but  is  glad  to  have  a 
paragraph  saying  that  you  saw  Herbert  Spencer 
the  day  before  yesterday  gazing  solemnly  for  ten 
minutes  in  at  a  milliner's  window.  Fleet  Street  at 
this  moment  is  simply  running  with  men  who  want 
to  air  their  views  about  things  in  general." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Rob,  dolefully. 

"Yes,  and  each  thinks  himself  as  original  as  he 
is  profound,  though  they  have  only  to  meet  to  dis- 
cover that  they  repeat  each  other.     The  pity  of  it 

148 


IN   FLEET   STREET 

is,  that  all  of  them  could  get  on  to  some  extent  if 
they  would  send  in  what  is  wanted.  There  is  copy 
in  every  man  you  meet,  and,  as  a  journalist  on  this 
stair  says,  when  you  do  meet  him  you  feel  inclined 
to  tear  it  out  of  him  and  use  it  yourself" 

"  What  sort  of  copy  *?  "  asked  Rob. 

"  They  should  write  of  the  things  they  have  seen. 
Newspaper  readers  have  an  insatiable  appetite  for 
knowing  how  that  part  of  the  world  lives  with 
which  they  are  not  familiar.  They  want  to  know 
how  the  Norwegians  cook  their  dinners  and  build 
their  houses  and  ask  each  other  in  marriage," 

"  But  I  have  never  been  out  of  Britain." 

"Neither  was  Shakespeare.  There  are  thou- 
sands of  articles  in  Scotland  yet.  You  must  know 
a  good  deal  about  the  Scottish  weavers  —  well, 
there  are  articles  in  them.  Describe  the  daily  life 
of  a  gillie  :  '  The  Gillie  at  Home  '  is  a  promising 
title.  Were  you  ever  snowed-up  in  your  saw-mill  ? 
Whether  you  were  or  not,  there  is  a  seasonable 
subject  for  January.  '  Yule  in  a  Scottish  Village  ' 
also  sounds  well,  and  there  is  a  safe  article  in  a 
Highland  gathering." 

"  These  must  have  been  done  before,  though," 
said  Rob. 

"  Of  course  they  have,"  answered  Rorrison ;  "  but 
do  them  in  your  own  way  :  the  public  has  no 
memory,  and  besides,  new  publics  are  always 
springing  up." 

149 


WHEN    A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"I  am  glad  I  came  to  see  you,"  said  Rob, 
brightening  considerably;  "I  never  thought  of 
these  things." 

"  Of  course  you  need  not  confine  yourself  to 
them.  Write  on  politics  if  you  will,  but  don't 
merely  say  what  you  yourself  think ;  rather  tell, 
for  instance,  what  is  the  political  situation  in  the 
country  parts  known  to  you.  That  should  be 
more  interesting  and  valuable  than  your  individual 
views.  But  I  may  tell  you  that,  if  you  have  the 
journalistic  faculty,  you  will  always  be  on  the  look- 
out for  possible  articles.  The  man  on  this  stair  I 
have  mentioned  to  you  would  have  had  an  article 
out  of  you  before  he  had  talked  with  you  as  long 
as  I  have  done.  You  must  have  heard  of  Noble 
Simms?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  his  novel,"  said  Rob ;  "  I  should 
like  immensely  to  meet  him." 

"  I  must  leave  you  an  introduction  to  him,"  said 
Rorrison;  "he  wakens  most  people  up,  though 
you  would  scarcely  think  it  to  look  at  him.  You 
see  this  pipe  here?  Simms  saw  me  mending  it 
with  sealing-wax  one  day,  and  two  days  afterwards 
there  was  an  article  about  it  in  the  Scalping  Knife. 
When  I  went  off  for  my  holidays  last  summer  I 
asked  him  to  look  in  here  occasionally  and  turn  a 
new  cheese  which  had  been  sent  me  from  the 
country.  Of  course  he  forgot  to  do  it,  but  I  de- 
nounced him  on  my  return  foi   not  keeping  his 

150 


IN    FLEET   STREET 

solemn  promise,  so  he  revenged  himself  by  pub- 
lishing an  article  entitled  '  Rorrison's  Oil-Painting.' 
In  this  it  was  explained  that  just  before  Rorrison 
went  off  for  a  holiday  he  got  a  present  of  an  oil- 
painting.  Remembering  when  he  had  got  to  Paris 
that  the  painting,  which  had  come  to  him  wet  from 
the  easel,  had  been  left  lying  on  his  table,  he  tele- 
graphed to  the  writer  to  have  it  put  away  out  of 
reach  of  dust  and  the  cat.  The  writer  promised  to 
do  so,  but  when  Rorrison  returned  he  found  the 
picture  lying  just  where  he  left  it.  He  rushed  off 
to  his  friend's  room  to  upbraid  him,  and  did  it  so 
effectually  that  the  friend  says  in  his  article,  '  I 
will  never  do  a  good  turn  for  Rorrison  again ! ' " 

"  But  why,"  asked  Rob,  "  did  he  turn  the  cheese 
into  an  oil-painting?" 

"Ah,  there  you  have  the  journalistic  instinct 
again.  You  see  a  cheese  is  too  plebeian  a  thing  to 
form  the  subject  of  an  article  in  the  Scalping  Knife, 
so  SimniS  made  a  painting  of  it.  He  has  had  my 
Chinese  umbrella  from  several  points  of  view  in 
three  different  papers.  When  I  play  on  his  piano 
I  put  scraps  of  paper  on  the  notes  to  guide  me, 
and  he  made  his  three  guineas  out  of  that.  Once 
I  challenged  him  to  write  an  article  on  a  straw 
that  was  sticking  to  the  sill  of  my  window,  and  it 
was  one  of  the  most  interesting  things  he  ever  did. 

Then  there  was  the  box  of  old  clothes  and  other 
odds  and  ends  that  he  promised  to  store  for  me 

151 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

when  I  changed  my  rooms.  He  sold  the  lot  to  a 
hawker  for  a  pair  of  flower-pots,  and  wrote  an 
article  on  the  transaction.  Subsequently  he  had 
another  article  on  the  flower-pots ;  and  when  I 
appeared  to  claim  my  belongings  he  got  a  third 
article  out  of  that." 

"  I  suppose  he  reads  a  great  deal  *?  "  said  Rob. 

"  He  seldom  opens  a  book,"  answered  Rorrison ; 
"  indeed,  when  he  requires  to  consult  a  work  of 
reference  he  goes  to  the  Strand  and  does  his  read- 
ing at  a  bookstall.  I  don't  think  he  was  ever  in 
the  British  Museum." 

Rob  laughed. 

"  At  the  same  time,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  think  Mr. 
Noble  Simms  could  get  any  copy  out  of  me." 

Just  then  some  one  shuffled  into  the  passage, 
and  the  door  opened. 


152 


CHAPTER   IX 

MR.  NOBLE  SIMMS 

The  new-comer  was  a  young  man  with  an  im- 
passive face  and  weary  eyes,  who,  as  he  slouched 
in,  described  a  parabola  in  the  air  with  one  of  his 
feet,  which  was  his  way  of  keeping  a  burned  slipper 
on.  Rorrison  introduced  him  to  Rob  as  Mr.  Noble 
Simms,  after  which  Simms  took  himself  into  a 
corner  of  the  room,  like  a  man  who  has  paid  for 
his  seat  in  a  railway  compartment  and  refuses  to 
be  drawn  into  conversation.  He  would  have  been 
a  handsome  man  had  he  had  a  little  more  interest 
in  himself 

"  I  thought  you  told  me  you  were  going  out  to- 
night," said  Rorrison. 

"  I  meant  to  go,"  Simms  answered,  "  but  when  I 
rang  for  my  boots  the  housekeeper  thought  I  asked 
for  water,  and  brought  it,  so,  rather  than  explain 
matters  to  her,  I  drank  the  water  and  remained  in- 
doors." 

"  I  read  your  book  lately,  Mr.  Simms,"  Rob  said, 
after  he  had  helped  himself  to  tobacco  from  Simms's 
pouch,  "  Try  my  tobacco,"  being  the  press  form  of 
salutation. 


WHEN   A   MANS   SINGLE 

"  You  did  not  buy  the  second  volume,  did 
you  ?  "  asked  Simms,  with  a  show  of  interest,  and 
Rob  had  to  admit  that  he  got  the  novel  from  a 
library. 

"  Excuse  my  asking  you,"  Simms  continued,  in 
his  painfully  low  voice  ;  "  I  had  a  special  reason. 
You  see  I  happen  to  know  that,  besides  what  went 
to  the  libraries,  there  were  in  all  six  copies  of  my 
book  sold.  My  admirer  bought  two,  and  I  myself 
bought  three  and  two-thirds,  so  that  only  one 
volume  remains  to  be  accounted  for.  I  like  to 
think  that  the  purchaser  was  a  lady." 

"  But  how  did  it  come  about,"  inquired  Rob, 
while  Rorrison  smoked  on  imperturbably,  "that 
the  volumes  were  on  sale  singly?" 

"  That  was  to  tempt  a  public,"  said  Simms, 
gravely, "  who  would  not  take  kindly  to  the  three 
volumes  together.     It  is  a  long  story,  though." 

Here  he  paused,  as  if  anxious  to  escape  out  of 
the  conversation. 

"No  blarney,  Simms,"  expostulated  Rorrison. 
"  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Angus,  that  this  man  always 
means  (when  he  happens  to  have  a  meaning)  the 
reverse  of  what  he  says." 

"Don't  mind  Rorrison,"  said  Simms  to  Rob. 
"  It  was  in  this  way.  My  great  work  of  fiction  did 
fairly  well  at  the  libraries,owing  to  a  mistake  Mudie 
made  about  the  name.  He  ordered  a  number  of 
copies  under  the  impression  that  the  book  was  by 

154 


MR.  NOBLE   SIMMS 

the  popular  novelist,  Simmons,  and  when  the  mis- 
take was  found  out  he  was  too  honourable  to  draw 
back.  The  surplus  copies,  however,  would  not 
sell  at  all.  My  publisher  offered  them  as  Satur- 
day evening  presents  to  his  young  men,  but  they 
always  left  them  on  their  desks ;  so  next  he  tried 
the  second-hand  book-shops,  in  the  hope  that 
people  from  the  country  would  buy  the  three  vol- 
umes because  they  looked  so  cheap  at  two  shill- 
ings. However,  even  the  label '  Published  at  31s. 
6d. :  offered  for  2s.,'  was  barren  of  results.  I  used  to 
stand  in  an  alley  near  one  of  these  book-shops, 
and  watch  the  people  handling  my  novel." 

"  But  no  one  made  an  offer  for  it  ?  " 

"  Not  at  two  shillings,  but  when  it  came  down  to 
one-and-sixpence  an  elderly  man  with  spectacles 
very  nearly  bought  it.  He  was  undecided  between 
it  and  a  Trigonometry,  but  in  the  end  he  went  off 
with  the  Trigonometry.  Then  a  young  lady  in 
grey  and  pink  seemed  interested  in  it.  I  watched 
her  reading  the  bit  about  Lord  John  entering  the 
drawing-room  suddenly  and  finding  Henry  on  his 
knees,  and  once  I  distinctly  saw  her  smile." 

"She  might  have  bought  the  novel  if  only  to 
see  how  it  ended." 

"  Ah,  I  have  always  been  of  opinion  that  she 
would  have  done  so,  had  she  not  most  unfortuna- 
tely, in  her  eagerness  to  learn  what  Henry  said 
when  he  and  Eleanor  went  into  the  conservatory, 


WHEN   A   MAN  S   SINGLE 

knocked  a  row  of  books  over  with  her  elbow. 
That  frightened  her,  and  she  took  to  flight." 

"  Most  unfortunate,"  said  Rob,  solemnly,  though 
he  was  already  beginning  to  understand  Simms  — 
as  Simms  was  on  the  surface. 

"  I  had  a  still  greater  disappointment,"  continued 
the  author,  "  a  few  days  afterwards.  By  this  time 
the  book  was  marked '  Very  Amusing,  is.,  worth 
is.  6d. ;'  and  when  I  saw  a  pale-looking  young 
man,  who  had  been  examining  it,  enter  the  shop,  I 
thought  the  novel  was  as  good  as  sold.  My  ex- 
citemejit  was  intense  when  a  shopman  came  out  for 
the  three  volumes  and  carried  them  inside,  but  I 
was  puzzled  on  seeing  the  young  gentleman  de- 
part, apparently  without  having  made  a  purchase. 
Consider  my  feelings  when  the  shopman  replaced 
the  three  volumes  on  his  shelf  with  the  new  label, 
' 924  pp.,  8d. ;  worth  is.' " 

"  Surely  it  found  a  purchaser  now  ?  " 

"  Alas,  no.  The  only  man  who  seemed  to  be 
attracted  by  it  at  eightpence  turned  out  to  be  the 
author  of  'John  Mordaunt's  Christmas  Box' 
(  '  Thrilling  I  Published  at  6s. ;  offered  at  is.  3d.'), 
who  was  hanging  about  in  the  interests  of  his  own 
work." 

"  Did  it  come  down  to  *  Sixpence,  worth  nine- 
pence  ? ' " 

"  No ;  when  I  returned  to  the  spot  next  day  I 
found  volumes  One  and  Three  in  the  '  2d.  any  vol.* 

156 


MR.  NOBLE   SIMMS 

box,  and  I  carried  them  away  myself.  What  be- 
came of  volume  Two  I  have  never  been  able  to 
discover.     I  rummaged  the  box  for  it  in  vain." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Angus,"  remarked  Rorri- 
son,  "  the  novel  is  now  in  its  third  edition." 

"  I  always  understood  that  it  had  done  well,'' 
said  Rob. 

"  The  fourth  time  I  asked  for  it  at  Mudie's," 
said  Simms,  the  latter  half  of  whose  sentences  were 
sometimes  scarcely  audible,  "  I  inquired  how  it  was 
doing,  and  was  told  that  it  had  been  already  asked 
for  three  times.  Curiously  enough  there  is  a  gen- 
eral impression  that  it  has  been  a  great  success, 
and  for  that  I  have  to  thank  one  man." 

"  The  admirer  of  whom  you  spoke  *?  " 

"  Yes,  my  admirer,  as  I  love  to  call  him.  I  first 
heard  of  him  as  a  business  gentleman  living  at 
Shepherd's  Bush,  who  spoke  with  rapture  of  my 
novel  to  any  chance  acquaintances  he  made  on  the 
tops  of  'buses.  Then  my  aunt  told  me  that  a 
young  lady  knew  a  stout  man  living  at  Shepherd's 
Bush  who  could  talk  of  nothing  but  my  book  ;  and 
on  inquiry  at  my  publisher's  I  learnt  that  a  gentle- 
man answering  to  this  description  had  bought  two 
copies.  I  heard  of  my  admirer  from  different 
quarters  for  the  next  month,  until  a  great  longing 
rose  in  me  to  see  him,  to  clasp  his  hand,  to  ask 
what  part  of  the  book  he  liked  best,  at  the  least  to 
walk  up  and  down  past  his  windows,  feeling  that 

157 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

two  men  who  appreciated  each  other  were  only 
separated  by  a  pane  of  ghiss." 

"  Did  you  ever  discover  who  he  was  ?  " 

"  I  did.  He  lives  at  42,  Lavender  Crescent, 
Shepherd's  Bush,  and  his  name  is  Henry  Gilding." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Rob,  seeing  Simms  pause,  as  if 
this  was  all. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Angus,"  the  author  murmured 
in  reply,  "  that  you  did  not  read  the  powerful  and 
harrowing  tale  very  carefully,  or  you  would  remem- 
ber that  my  hero's  name  was  also  Henry  Gilding." 

"  Well,  but  what  of  that  ?  " 

"  There  is  everything  in  that.  It  is  what  made 
the  Shepherd's  Bush  gentleman  my  admirer  for 
life.  He  considers  it  the  strangest  and  most  di- 
verting thing  in  his  experience,  and  every  night, 
I  believe,  after  dinner,  his  eldest  daughter  has  to 
read  out  to  him  the  passages  in  which  the  Henry 
Gildings  are  thickest.  He  chuckles  over  the  ex- 
traordinary coincidence  still.  He  could  take  that 
joke  with  him  to  the  seaside  for  a  month,  and  it 
would  keep  him  in  humour  all  the  time." 

"  Have  done,  Simms,  have  done,"  said  Rorrison ; 
"  Angus  is  one  of  us,  or  wants  to  be,  at  all  events. 
The  Minotaur  is  printing  one  of  his  things,  and 
I  have  been  giving  him  some  sage  advice." 

"Any  man,"  said  Simms,  "will  do  well  on  the 
Press  if  he  is  stupid  enough ;  even  Rorrison  has 
done  well." 

.58 


MR.  NOBLE   SIMMS 

"  I  have  just  been  telling  him,"  responded  Ror- 
rison,  "  that  the  stupid  men  fail." 

"  I  don't  consider  you  a  failure,  Rorrison,"  said 
Simms,  in  mild  surprise.  "  What  stock-in-trade  a 
literary  hand  requires,  Mr.  Angus,  is  a  fire  to  dry 
his  writing  at,  jam  or  honey  with  which  to  gum 
old  stamps  on  to  envelopes,  and  an  antimacassar." 

"  An  antimacassar  ?  "  Rob  repeated. 

"  Yes ;  you  pluck  the  thread  with  which  to  sew 
your  copy  together  out  of  the  antimacassar.  When 
my  antimacassars  are  at  the  wash  I  have  to  take  a 
holiday." 

"  Well,  well,  Simms,"  said  Rorrison,  "  I  like 
you  best  when  you  are  taciturn." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Simms. 

"  You  might  give  Angus  some  advice  about  the 
likeliest  papers  for  which  to  write.  London  is  new 
to  him." 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  Simms,  more 
seriously,  "  that  advice  in  such  a  matter  is  merely 
talk  thrown  away.  If  you  have  the  journalistic 
instinct,  which  includes  a  determination  not  to  be 
beaten  as  well  as  an  aptitude  for  selecting  the 
proper  subjects,  you  will  by  and  by  find  an  editor 
who  believes  in  you.  Many  men  of  genuine  liter- 
ary ability  have  failed  on  the  Press  because  they 
did  not  have  that  instinct,  and  they  have  attacked 
journalism  in  their  books  in  consequence." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  know  what  the  journalistic 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

instinct  precisely  is,"  Rob  said,  "  and  still  less  whe- 
ther I  possess  it." 

"  Ah,  just  let  me  put  you  through  your  paces," 
replied  Simms.  "  Suppose  yourself  up  for  an 
exam,  in  journalism,  and  that  I  am  your  examiner. 
Question  One  : '  The  house  was  soon  on  fire ;  much 
sympathy  is  expressed  with  the  suffererers.'  Can 
you  translate  that  into  newspaper  English  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see,"  answered  Rob,  entering  into  the 
spirit  of  the  examination.  "  How  would  this  do  : 
'  In  a  moment  the  edifice  was  enveloped  in  shoot- 
ing tongues  of  flame ;  the  appalling  catastrophe 
has  plunged  the  whole  street  into  the  gloom  of 
night'?" 

"  Good.  Question  Two  :  A  man  hangs  himself; 
what  is  the  technical  heading  for  this  ?  " 

"  Either  '  Shocking  Occurrence  '  or '  Rash  Act.' " 

"  Question  Three  :  '  Pabuluf/i,' '  Cela  va  sans  dire^ 
*  Par  excellence^  '  Ne  plus  ultra."  What  are  these  ? 
Are  there  any  more  of  them  ?  " 

"  They  are  scholarship,"  replied  Rob,  "  and  there 
are  two  more,  namely,  '  tour  de  force '  and  *  terra 
firma:  " 

"  Question  Four :  '  A.  (a  soldier)  dies  at  6  p.m. 
with  his  back  to  the  foe.  B.  (a  philanthropist) 
dies  at  i  a.m. :  which  of  these,  speaking  technically, 
would  you  call  a  creditable  death  ?  " 

"  The  soldier's,  because  time  was  given  to  set  it." 

"  Quite  right.     Question  Five :   Have  you  ever 

160 


MR.  NOBLE   SIMMS 

known  a  newspaper  which  did  not  have  the  largest 
circulation  in  its  district,  and  was  not  the  most  in- 
fluential advertising  medium  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Question  Six  :  Mr.  Gladstone  rises  to  speak  in 
the  House  ot  Commons  at  2  a.m.  What  would  be 
the  sub-editor's  probable  remark  on  receiving  the 
opening  words  of  the  speech,  and  how  would  he 
break  the  news  to  the  editor  *?  How  would  the 
editor  be  likely  to  take  it  *?  " 

"  I  prefer,"  said  Rob,  "  not  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  Simms,  tiring  of  the 
examination,  "  you  have  passed  with  honours." 

The  conversation  turned  to  Rorrison's  coming 
work  in  Egypt,  and  by  and  by  Simms  rose  to  go. 

"  Your  stick,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Angus  ?  "  he  said, 
taking  Rob's  thick  staff  from  a  corner. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Rob,  "  it  has  only  a  heavy 
knob,  you  see,  for  a  handle,  and  a  doctor  once  told 
me  that  if  I  continued  to  press  so  heavily  on  it  I 
might  suffer  from  some  disease  in  the  palm  of  the 
hand." 

"  I  never  heard  of  that,"  said  Simms,  looking  up 
for  the  first  time  since  he  entered  the  room.  Then 
he  added,  "  You  should  get  a  stick  like  Rorrison's. 
It  has  a  screw  handle  which  he  keeps  loose,  so  that 
the  slightest  touch  knocks  it  off.  It  is  called  the 
compliment-stick,  because   if  Rorrison   is   in   die 

l6l 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

company  ol'  ladies,  he  contrives  to  get  them  to 
hold  it.  This  is  in  the  hope  that  they  will  knock 
the  handle  oft',  when  Rorrison  bows  and  remarks 
exultingly  that  the  stick  is  like  its  owner  —  when 
it  came  near  them  it  lost  its  head.  He  has  said 
that  to  fifteen  ladies  now,  and  has  a  great  reputa- 
tion for  gallantry  in  consequence.    Good-night." 

"  Well,  he  did  not  get  any  copy  out  of  me," 
said  Rob. 

"  Simms  is  a  curious  fellow,"  Rorrison  answered. 
"  Though  you  might  not  expect  it,  he  has  written 
some  of  the  most  pathetic  things  I  ever  read,  but 
he  wears  his  heart  out  of  sight.  Despite  what  he 
says,  too,  he  is  very  jealous  for  the  Press's  good 
name.  He  seemed  to  take  to  you,  so  I  should  not 
wonder  though  he  were  to  look  you  up  here  some 
night." 

"  Here  *?     How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  this.  I  shall  probably  be  away  from 
London  for  some  months,  and  as  I  must  keep  on 
my  rooms,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  not  occupy 
them.  The  furniture  is  mine,  and  you  would  be 
rent  free,  except  that  the  housekeeper  expects  a 
few  shillings  a  week  for  looking  after  things.  What 
do  you  think  *?  " 

Rob  could  have  only  one  thought  as  he  com- 
pared these  comfortable  chambers  to  his  own  bare 
room,  and  as  Rorrison,  who  seemed  to  have  taken 
a  warm  liking  to  him,  pressed  the  point,  arguing 

162 


MR.  NOBLE   SIMMS 

that  as  the  rent  must  be  paid  at  any  rate  the 
chambers  were  better  occupied,  he  at  last  consented 
on  the  understanding  that  they  could  come  to  some 
arrangement  on  Rorrison's  return. 

"  It  will  please  my  father,  too,"  Rorrison  added, 
"  to  know  that  you  are  here.  I  always  remember 
that  had  it  not  been  for  him  you  might  never  have 
gone  on  to  the  press." 

They  sat  so  late  talking  this  matter  over  that 
Rob  eventually  stayed  all  night,  Rorrison  having 
in  his  bedroom  a  couch  which  many  journalists 
had  slept  on. 

Next  morning  the  paper  whose  nick-name  is  the 
Scalping  Knife  was  served  up  with  breakfast,  and 
the  first  thing  Rob  saw  in  it  was  a  leaderette  about 
a  disease  generated  in  the  palm  of  the  hand  by 
walking-sticks  with  heavy  knobs  for  handles. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Rorrison,  "  that  Simms  would 
make  his  half-guinea  out  of  you." 

When  Rorrison  went  down  to  Simms's  chambers 
later  in  the  day,  however,  to  say  that  he  was  leav- 
ing Rob  tenant  of  his  rooms,  he  was  laughing  at 
something  else. 

"  All  during  breakfast,"  he  said  to  Simms,  "  I 
noticed  that  Angus  was  preoccupied,  and  anxious 
to  say  something  that  he  did  not  like  to  say.  At 
last  he  blurted  it  out  with  a  white  face,  and  what 
do  you  think  it  was  *?  " 

Simms  shook  bis  head. 

163 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  Well,"  said  Rorrison,  "  It  was  this.  He  has 
been  accustomed  to  go  down  on  his  knees  every 
night  to  say  his  prayers — as  we  used  to  do  at 
school,  but  when  he  saw  that  I  did  not  do  it  he 
did  not  like  to  do  it  either,  I  believe  it  troubled 
him  all  night,  for  he  looked  haggard  when  he  rose." 

"  He  told  you  this  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he  said  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself,"  said 
Rorrison,  smiling.  "  You  must  remember  he  is 
country-bred." 

'•  You  were  a  good  fellow,  Rorrison,"  said  Simms, 
gravely, "  to  put  him  into  your  rooms,  but  I  don't 
see  what  you  are  laughing  at." 

"  Why,"  said  Rorrison,  taken  aback,  "  I  thought 
you  would  see  it  in  the  same  light." 

"  Not  I,"  said  Simms  ;  "  but  let  me  tell  you  this, 
I  shall  do  what  I  can  for  him.    I  like  your  Angus." 


164. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE   WIGWAM 

Rob  had  a  tussle  for  it,  but  he  managed  to  live 
down  his  first  winter  in  London,  and  May-day  saw 
him  sufficiently  prosperous  and  brazen  to  be  able 
to  go  into  restaurants  and  shout  out  "  Waiter." 
After  that  nothing  frightened  him  but  barmaids. 

For  a  time  his  chief  struggle  had  been  with  his 
appetite,  which  tortured  him  when  he  went  out  in 
the  afternoons.  He  wanted  to  dine  out  of  a  paper 
bag,  but  his  legs  were  reluctant  to  carry  him  past  a 
grill-room.  At  last  a  compromise  was  agreed  upon. 
If  he  got  a  proof  over  night,  he  dined  in  state  next 
day ;  if  it  was  only  his  manuscript  that  was  returned 
to  him,  he  thought  of  dining  later  in  the  week. 
For  a  long  time  his  appetite  had  the  worse  of  it. 
It  was  then  that  he  became  so  great  an  authority 
on  penny  buns.  His  striking  appearance  always 
brought  the  saleswomen  to  him  promptly,  and 
sometimes  he  blushed,  and  often  he  glared,  as  he 
gave  his  order.  When  they  smiled  he  changed 
his  shop. 

There  was  one  terrible  month  when  he  wrote 

.6j 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

from  morning  to  night  and  did  not  make  sixpence. 
He  lived  by  selling  his  books,  half  a  dozen  at  a  time. 
Even  on  the  last  day  of  that  black  month  he  did 
not  despair.  When  he  wound  up  his  watch  at 
nights  before  going  hungry  to  bed,  he  never  re- 
membered that  it  could  be  pawned.  The  very 
idea  of  entering  a  pawnshop  never  struck  him. 
Many  a  time  when  his  rejected  articles  came  back 
he  shook  his  fist  in  imagination  at  all  the  editors 
in  London,  and  saw  himself  twisting  their  necks 
one  by  one.  To  think  of  a  different  death  for  each 
of  them  exercised  his  imagination  and  calmed  his 
passion,  and  he  wondered  whether  the  murder  of 
an  editor  was  an  indictable  offence.  When  he  did 
not  have  ten  shillings,  "  I  will  get  on,"  cried  Rob 
to  himself  "  I'm  not  going  to  be  starved  out  of  a 
big  town  like  this.  I'll  make  my  mark  yet.  Yes," 
he  roared,  while  the  housekeeper,  at  the  other  side 
of  the  door,  quaked  to  hear  him,  "  I  will  get  on ; 
I'm  not  going  to  be  beaten."  He  was  waving  his 
arms  fiercely,  when  the  housekeeper  knocked. 
"  Come  in,"  said  Rob,  subsiding  meekly  into  his 
chair.  Before  company  he  seemed  to  be  without 
passion,  but  they  should  have  seen  him  when  he 
was  alone.  One  night  he  dreamt  that  he  saw  all 
the  editors  in  London  being  conveyed  (in  a  row) 
to  the  hospital  on  stretchers.  A  gratified  smile  lit 
up  his  face  as  he  slept,  and  his  arm,  going  out 
suddenly  to  tip    one    of  the  stretchers  over,  hit 

166 


THE   WIGWAM 

against  a  chair.  Rob  jumped  out  of  bed  and 
kicked  the  chair  round  the  room.  By  and  by, 
when  his  articles  were  occasionally  used,  he  told 
his  proofs  that  the  editors  were  capital  fellows. 

The  only  acquaintances  he  made  were  with 
journalists  who  came  to  his  chambers  to  see  Ror- 
rison,  who  was  now  in  India.  They  seemed  just 
as  pleased  to  see  Rob,  and  a  few  of  them,  who 
spoke  largely  of  their  connection  with  literature, 
borrowed  five  shillings  from  him.  To  his  disap- 
pointment Noble  Simms  did  not  call,  though  he 
sometimes  sent  up  notes  to  Rob  suggesting  likely 
articles,  and  the  proper  papers  to  which  to  send 
them.  "  I  would  gladly  say  '  Use  my  name,' " 
Simms  wrote,  "  but  it  is  the  glory  of  anonymous 
journalism  that  names  are  nothing  and  good  stuff 
everything.  I  assure  you  that  on  the  press  it  is  the 
men  who  have  it  in  them  that  succeed,  and  the 
best  of  them  become  the  editors."  He  advised  Rob 
to  go  to  the  annual  supper  given  by  a  philanthropic 
body  to  discharged  criminals  and  write  an  account 
of  the  proceedings ;  and  told  him  that  when  any- 
thing remarkable  happened  in  London  he  should 
at  once  do  an  article  (in  the  British  Museum)  on  the 
times  the  same  thing  had  happened  before.  "  Don't 
neglect  eclipses,"  he  said,  "  nor  heavy  scoring 
at  cricket  matches  any  more  than  what  look  like 
signs  of  the  times,  and  always  try  to  be  first  in  the 
field."     He  recommended  Rob  to  gather  statistics 

167 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

of  all  kinds,  from  the  number  of  grandchildren  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe  had  to  the  jockeys  who 
had  ridden  the  Derby  winner  more  than  once,  and 
suggested  the  collecting  of  anecdotes  about  celeb- 
rities, which  everybody  would  want  to  read  if  the 
celebrities  chanced  to  die,  as  they  must  do  some 
day;  and  he  assured  him  that  there  was  a  public 
who  liked  to  be  told  every  year  what  the  poets 
had  said  about  May.  Rob  was  advised  never  to 
let  a  historic  house  disappear  from  London  without 
compiling  an  article  about  its  associations,  and  to 
be  ready  to  run  after  the  fire  brigade.  He  was  told 
that  an  article  on  flagstone  artists  could  be  made 
interesting.  "  But  always  be  sure  of  your  facts," 
Simms  said.  "  Write  your  articles  over  again  and 
again,  avoid  fine  writing  as  much  as  dishonest 
writing,  and  never  spoil  a  leaderette  by  drawing 
it  out  into  a  leader.  By  and  by  you  may  be  able  to 
choose  the  kind  of  subject  that  interests  yourself, 
but  at  present  put  your  best  work  into  what  expe- 
rienced editors  believe  interests  the  g*^vneral  public." 
Rob  found  these  suggestions  valuable,  and  often 
thought,  as  he  passed  Simms's  door,  of  going  in  to 
thank  him,  but  he  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
that  Simms  did  not  want  him.  Of  course  Rob 
was  wrong.  Simms  had  feared  at  first  to  saddle 
himself  with  a  man  who  might  prove  incapable; 
and  besides,  he  generally  liked  those  persons  best 
whom  he  saw  least  frequently. 

168 


THE   WIGWAM 

For  the  great  part  of  the  spring  SImms  was  out 
of  town ;  but  one  day  after  his  return  he  met  Rob 
on  the  stair,  and  took  him  into  his  chambers.  The 
sitting-room  had  been  originally  furnished  with 
newspaper  articles;  Simms,  in  his  younger  days, 
when  he  wanted  a  new  chair  or  an  etching  having 
written  an  article  to  pay  for  it,  and  then  pasted  the 
article  on  the  back.  He  had  paid  a  series  on  wild 
birds  for  his  piano,  and  at  one  time  leaderettes  had 
even  been  found  in  the  inside  of  his  hats.  Odd 
books  and  magazines  lay  about  his  table,  but  they 
would  not  in  all  have  filled  a  library  shelf;  and 
there  were  no  newspapers  visible.  The  blank  wall 
opposite  the  fireplace  showed  in  dust  that  a  large 
picture  had  recently  hung  there.  It  was  an  oil- 
painting  which  a  month  earlier  had  given  way  in 
the  cord  and  fallen  behind  the  piano,  where  Simms 
M^as  letting  it  lie. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Rob,  who  had  heard  from 
many  quarters  of  Simms's  reputation,  "  that  you  are 
content  to  pu'  your  best  work  into  newspapers." 

"  Ah,"  answered  Simms,  "  I  was  ambitious  once, 
but,  as  I  told  you,  the  grand  book  was  a  failure. 
Nowadays  I  gratify  myself  with  the  reflection  that 
I  am  not  stupid  enough  ever  to  be  a  great  man." 

"  I  wish  you  would  begin  something  really  big," 
said  Rob  earnestly. 

"  I  feel  safer,"  replied  Simms,  "  finishing  some- 
thing really  little." 

169 


WHEN   A    MAN'S   SINGLE 

He  turned  the  talk  to  Rob's  affairs  as  if  his 
own  wearied  him,  and,  after  hesitating,  offered  to 
"  place  "  a  political  article  by  Rob  with  the  editor 
of  the  Morning  Wire. 

"  I  don't  say  he'll  use  it,  though,"  he  added. 

This  was  so  much  the  work  Rob  hungered  for  that 
ho  could  have  run  upstairs  and  begun  it  at  once. 

"  Why,  you  surely  don't  work  on  Saturday 
nights "?  "  said  his  host,  who  was  putting  on  an 
overcoat. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rob,  "  there  is  nothing  else  to  do. 
I  know  no  one  well  enough  to  go  to  him.  Of 
course  I  do  nothing  on  the  Sab —  I  mean  on 
Sundays." 

"  No  *?    Then  how  do  you  pass  your  Sundays  ?  " 

"  I  go  to  church,  and  take  a  long  walk,  or  read." 

"  And  you  never  break  this  principle  —  when  a 
capital  idea  for  an  article  strikes  you  on  Sunday 
evening,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Rob,  "  when  that  happens  I  wait 
until  twelve  o'clock  strikes,  and  then  begin." 

Perceiving  nothing  curious  in  this,  Rob  did  not 
look  up  to  see  Simms's  mouth  twitching. 

"  On  those  occasions,"  asked  Simms,  "  when  you 
are  waiting  for  twelve  o'clock,  does  the  evening  not 
seem  to  pass  very  slowly  *?  " 

Then  Rob  blushed. 

"At  all  events,  come  with  me  to-night,"  said 
Simms,  "to  my  club.     I  am   going  now  to  the 

170- 


THE   WIGWAM 

Wigwam,  and  we  may  meet  men  there  worth  your 
knowing." 

The  Wigwam  is  one  of  the  best-known  literary 
clubs  in  London,  and  as  they  rattled  to  it  in  a 
hansom,  the  driver  of  which  was  the  broken  son 
of  a  peer,  Rob  remarked  that  its  fame  had  even 
travelled  to  his  saw-mill. 

"  It  has  such  a  name,"  said  Simms  in  reply,  "  that 
I  feel  sorry  for  any  one  who  is  taken  to  it  for  the 
first  time.  The  best  way  to  admire  the  Wigwam 
is  not  to  go  to  it." 

"I  always  thought  it  was  considered  the  plea- 
santest  club  in  London,"  Rob  said. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Simms,  who  was  a  member  of 
half  a  dozen ;  "  most  of  the  others  are  only  meant 
for  sitting  in  on  padded  chairs  and  calling  out 
*  sh-sh '  when  any  other  body  speaks." 

At  the  Wigwam  there  is  a  special  dinner  every 
Saturday  evening,  but  it  was  over  before  Simms 
and  Rob  arrived,  and  the  members  were  crowding 
into  the  room  where  great  poets  have  sat  beating 
time  with  churchwardens,  while  great  artists  or 
coming  Cabinet  ministers  sang  songs  that  were 
not  of  the  drawing-room.  A  popular  novelist,  on 
whom  Rob  gazed  with  a  veneration  that  did  not 
spread  to  his  companion's  face,  was  in  the  chair 
when  they  entered,  and  the  room  was  full  of  liter- 
ary men,  actors,  and  artists,  of  whom,  though 
many  were  noted,  many  were  also  needy.     Here 

171 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

was  an  actor  who  had  separated  from  his  wife  be- 
cause her  notices  were  better  than  liis ;  and  another 
gentleman  of  the  same  profession  took  Rob  aside 
to  say  that  he  was  the  greatest  tragedian  on  earth 
if  he  could  only  get  a  chance.  Rob  did  not  know 
what  to  reply  when  the  eminent  cartoonist  sitting 
next  him,  whom  he  had  looked  up  to  for  half  a 
dozen  years,  told  him,  by  way  of  opening  a  con- 
versation, that  he  had  just  pawned  his  watch. 
They  seemed  so  pleased  with  poverty  that  they 
made  as  much  of  a  little  of  it  as  they  could,  and 
the  wisest  conclusion  Rob  came  to  that  night 
was  not  to  take  them  too  seriously.  It  was,  how- 
ever, a  novel  world  to  find  oneself  in  all  of  a 
sudden,  one  in  which  everybody  was  a  wit  at 
his  own  expense.  Even  Simms,  who  always  up- 
held the  press  when  any  outsider  ran  it  down,  sang 
with  applause  some  verses  whose  point  lay  in  their 
being  directed  against  himself     They  began  — 

When  clever  pressmen  write  this  way, 
"  As  Mr.  J.  A.  Froude  would  say,*" 
Is  it  because  they  think  he  would. 
And  have  they  read  a  line  of  Froude? 
Or  is  it  only  that  they  fear 
The  comment  they  have  made  is  queer, 
And  that  they  either  must  erase  it. 
Or  say  it's  Mr.  Froude  who  says  it? 

Every  one  abandoned  himself  to  the  humour  of 
the  evening,  and  as  song  followed  song,  or  was 

172 


THE   WIGWAM 

wedged  between  entertainments  of  other  kinds, 
the  room  filled  with  smoke  until  it  resembled 
London  in  a  fog. 

By  and  by  a  sallow-faced  man  mounted  a  table 
to  show  the  company  how  to  perform  a  remarkable 
trick  with  three  hats.  He  got  his  hats  from  the 
company,  and  having  looked  at  them  thoughtfully 
for  some  minutes,  said  that  he  had  forgotten  the 
way. 

"  That,"  said  Simms,  mentioning  a  well-known 

journalist,  "  is  K .    He  can  never  work  unless 

his  pockets  are  empty,  and  he  would  not  be  look- 
ing so  doleful  at  present  if  he  was  not  pretty  well 
off.  He  goes  from  room  to  room  in  the  house  he 
lodges  in,  according  to  the  state  of  his  finances,  and 
when  you  call  on  him  you  have  to  ask  at  the  door 
which  floor  he  is  on  to-day.  One  week  you  find 
him  in  the  drawing-room,  the  next  in  the  garret." 

A  stouter  and  brighter  man  followed  the  hat 
entertainment  with  a  song,  which  he  said  was  con- 
sidered by  some  of  his  friends  a  recitation. 

"  There  was  a  time,"  said  Simms,  who  was  held 
a  terrible  person  by  those  who  took  him  literally, 
"  when  that  was  the  saddest  man  I  knew.  He  was 
so  sad  that  the  doctors  feared  he  would  die  of  it. 
It  all  came  of  his  writing  for  Puncb." 

"  How  did  they  treat  him  ?  "  Rob  asked. 

"  Oh,  they  quite  gave  him  up,  and  he  was  wast- 
ing away  visibly,  when  a  second-rate  provincial 

173 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

journal  appointed  him  its  London  correspondent, 
and  saved  his  Hfe." 

"  Then  he  was  sad,"  asked  Rob,  "  H/-cause  he 
was  out  of  work  ?  " 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Simms,  gravely,  "he 
was  always  one  of  the  successful  men,  but  he 
could  not  laugh." 

"  And  he  laughed  when  he  became  a  London 
correspondent  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  that  restored  his  sense  of  humour.  But 
listen  to  this  song ;  he  is  a  countryman  of  yours 
who  sings  it." 

A  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  been  cut  out 
of  a  granite  block,  and  who  at  the  end  of  each  verse 
thrust  his  pipe  back  into  his  mouth,  sang  in  a  broad 
accent,  that  made  Rob  want  to  go  nearer  him,  some 
verses  about  an  old  university  — 

"  Take  off  the  stranger's  hat !  "  —  The  shout 

We  raised  in  fifty-nine 
Assails  my  ears,  with  careless  flout. 

And  now  the  hat  is  mine. 
It  seems  a  day  since  I  was  here, 

A  student  slim  and  hearty. 
And  see,  the  boys  around  me  cheer, 

"  The  ancient  looking  party  !  " 

Rough  horseplay  did  not  pass  for  wit 
When  Rae  and  Mill  were  there; 

I  see  a  lad  from  Oxford  sit 
In  Blackie's  famous  chaih 


THE   WIGWAM 

And  Rae,  of  all  our  men  the  one 

We  most  admired  in  quad 
(I  had  this  years  ago),  has  gone 

Completely  to  the  bad. 

In  our  debates  the  moral  Mill 

Had  infinite  address, 
Alas !  since  then  he's  robbed  a  till. 

And  now  he's  on  the  press. 
And  Tommy  Robb,  the  ploughman's  son. 

Whom  all  his  fellows  slighted. 
From  Rae  and  Mill  the  prize  has  won. 

For  Tommy's  to  be  knighted. 

A  lanky  loon  is  in  the  seat 

Filled  once  by  manse-bred  Sheen, 
Who  did  not  care  to  m\x  with  Peate, 

A  bleacher  who  had  been. 
But  watch  the  whirligig  of  time. 

Brave  Peate  became  a  preacher. 
His  name  is  known  in  every  clime, 

And  Sheen  is  now  the  bleacher. 

McMillan,  who  the  medals  carried. 

Is  now  a  judge,  't  is  sai^I, 
And  curly-headed  Smith  is  married. 

And  Williamson  is  dead. 
Old  Phil  and  I  who  shared  our  books 

Now  very  seldom  meet. 
And  when  we  do,  with  frowning  looks 

We  pass  by  in  the  street. 

The  college  rings  with  student  slang 

As  in  the  days  of  yore. 
The  self-same  notice  boards  still  hang 

Upon  the  class-room  door  : 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

An  essay  (I  expected  that) 

On  Burns  this  week,  or  Locke, 
"  A  theory  of  creation  "  at 

Precisely  seven  o'clock. 

There's  none  here  now  who  knows  my  name. 

My  place  is  far  away. 
And  yet  the  college  is  the  same. 

Not  older  by  a  day. 
But  curious  looks  are  cast  at  me. 

Ah  !  herein  lies  the  change. 
All  else  is  as  it  used  to  be. 

And  I  alone  am  strange  ! 

"  Now,  you  could  never  guess,"  Simms  said  to 
Rob,  "  what  profession  our  singer  belongs  to." 

"  He  looks  more  like  a  writer  than  an  artist," 
said  Rob,  who  had  felt  the  song  more  than  the 
singer  did. 

"  Well,  he  is  more  an  artist  than  a  writer,  though, 
strictly  speaking,  he  is  neither.  To  that  man  is 
the  honour  of  having  created  a  profession.  He 
furnishes  rooms  for  interviews." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Rob. 

"  It  is  in  this  way,"  Simms  explained.  "  Inter- 
views in  this  country  are  of  recent  growth,  but  it 
has  been  already  discovered  that  what  the  public 
want  to  read  is  not  so  much  a  celebrity's  views  on 
any  topic  as  a  description  of  his  library,  his  dress- 
ing-gown, or  his  gift  from  the  king  of  Kashabahoo. 
Many  of  the  eminent  ones,  however,  are  very  un- 
interesting in  private  life,  and  have  no  curiosities 

176 


THE   WIGWAM 

to  show  their  interviewer  worth  writing  about,  so 
your  countryman  has  started  a  profession  of  provid- 
ing: curiosities  suitable  for  celebrities  at  from  five 
pounds  upwards,  each  article,  of  course,  having  a 
guaranteed  story  attached  to  it.  The  editor,  you 
observes,  intimates  his  wish  to  include  the  dis- 
tinguished person  in  his  galaxy  of  '  Men  of  the 
Moment,'  and  then  the  notability  drops  a  line  to 
our  friend  saying  that  he  wants  a  few  of  his  rooms 
arranged  for  an  interview.  Your  countryman  sends 
the  goods,  arranges  them  effectively,  and  puts  the 
celebrity  up  to  the  reminiscence  he  is  to  tell  about 
each." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Rob,  with  a  light  in  his  eye, 
."  that  the  interviewer  is  as  much  taken  in  by  this 
as  —  well,  say,  as  I  have  been  by  you  ?  " 

"  To  the  same  extent,"  admitted  Simms,  sol- 
emnly. "  Of  course  he  is  not  aware  that  before 
the  interview  appears  the  interesting  relics  have 
all  been  packed  up  and  taken  back  to  our  Scottish 
friend's  show-rooms." 

The  distinguished  novelist  in  the  chair  told  Rob 
(without  having  been  introduced  to  him)  that  his 
books  were  beggaring  his  publishers, 

"  What  I  make  my  living  off,"  he  said,  "  is  the 
penny  dreadful,  complete  in  one  number.  I  manu- 
facture two  a  week  without  hindrance  to  other  em- 
ployment, and  could  make  it  three  if  I  did  not 
have  a  weak  wrist  " 

177 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

h  was  thus  that  every  one  talked  to  Rob,  who, 
because  he  took  a  joke  without  changing  counte- 
nance, was  considered  obtuse.  He  congratulated 
dne  man  on  his  articles  on  chaffinches  in  the  Eve?m?g 
Firebrand,  and  the  writer  said  he  had  discovered, 
since  the  paper  appeared,  that  the  birds  he  described 
were  really  linnets.  Another  man  was  introduced 
to  Rob  as  the  writer  of  "  In  Memoriam." 

"  No,"  said  the  gentleman  himself,  on  seeing  Rob 
start,  "  my  name  is  not  Tennyson.  It  is,  indeed, 
Murphy.  Tennyson  and  the  other  fellows,  who 
are  ambitious  of  literary  fame,  pay  me  so  much  a 
page  for  poems  to  which  they  put  their  names." 

At  this  point  the  applause  became  so  deafening 
that  Simms  and  Rob,  who  had  been  on  their  way 
to  another  room,  turned  back.  An  aged  man,  with 
a  magnificent  head,  was  on  his  feet  to  describe  his 
first  meeting  with  Carlyle. 

"  Who  is  it^  "  asked  Rob,  and  Simms  mentioned 
the  name  of  a  celebrity  only  a  little  less  renowned 
than  Carlyle  himself  To  Rob  it  had  been  one  of 
the  glories  of  London  that  in  the  streets  he  some- 
times came  suddenly  upon  world-renowned  men, 
but  he  now  looked  upon  this  eminent  scientist  for 
the  first  time.  The  celebrity  was  there  as  a  visitor, 
for  the  Wigwam  cannot  boast  quite  such  famous 
Tiembers  as  he. 

The  septuagenarian  began  his  story  well.  He 
described  the  approach  to   Craigenputtock  on  a 

>78 


THE   WIGWAM 

warm  summer  afternoon,  and  the  emotions  that 
laid  hold  of  him  as,  from  a  distance,  he  observed 
the  sage  seated  astride  a  low  dyke,  flinging  stones 
into  the  duck-pond.  The  pedestrian  announced 
his  name  and  the  pleasure  with  which  he  at  last 
stood  face  to  face  with  the  greatest  writer  of  the 
day ;  and  then  the  genial  author  of  "  Sartor  Re^ 
sartus,"  annoyed  at  being  disturbed,  jumped  off 
the  dyke  and  chased  his  visitor  round  and  round 
the  duck-pond.  The  celebrity  had  got  thus  far  in 
his  reminiscence  when  he  suddenly  stammered, 
bit  his  lip  as  if  enraged  at  something,  and  then 
trembled  so  much  that  he  had  to  be  led  back  to 
his  seat. 

"  He  must  be  ill,"  whispered  Rob  to  Simms. 

"It  isn't  that,"  answered  Simms;  "I  fancy  he 
must  have  caught  sight  of  Wingfield." 

Rob's  companion  pointed  to  a  melancholy-look- 
ing man  in  a  seedy  coat,  who  was  sitting  alone, 
glaring  at  the  celebrity. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  Rob. 

"  He  is  the  great  man's  literary  executor,"  Simms 
replied ;  "  come  along  with  me  and  hearken  to  his 
sad  tale ;  he  is  never  loath  to  tell  it." 

They  crossed  over  to  Wingfield,  who  received 
them  dejectedly. 

"  This  is  not  a  matter  I  care  to  speak  of,  Mr. 
Angus,"  said  the  sorrowful  man,  who  spoke  of  it, 
however,  as  frequently  as  he  could  find  a  listener. 

179 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

'"It  is  now  seven  years  since  that  gentleman"' — • 
pointing  angrily  at  the  celebrity,  who  glared  in  re- 
ply—  "appointed  me  his  literary  executor.  At 
the  time  I  thought  it  a  splendid  appointment,  and 
by  the  end  ot  two  years  I  had  all  his  remains  care- 
fully edited  and  his  biography  ready  tor  the  press. 
He  was  an  invalid  at  that  time,  supposed  to  be 
breaking  up  fast;  yet  look  at  him  now." 

"He  is  quite  vigorous  in  appearance  now,"  said 
Rob. 

"  Oh,  I've  given  up  hope,"  continued  the  sad 
man,  dolefully. 

"  Still,"  remarked  Simms,  "  I  don't  know  that 
you  could  expect  him  to  die  just  for  your  sake.  I 
only  venture  that  as  an  opinion,  of  course." 

"  I  don't  ask  that  of  him,"  responded  Wingfield. 
"  I'm  not  blaming  him  in  any  way ;  all  I  say  's 
that  he  has  spoilt  my  life.  Here  have  I  been  wait- 
ing, waiting  for  five  years,  and  I  seem  further  from 
publication  than  ever." 

"  It  is  hard  on  you,"  said  Simms. 

"  But  why  did  he  break  down  in  his  story,"  asked 
Rob,  "  when  he  saw  you  ■?  " 

"  Oh,  the  man  has  some  sense  of  decency  left,  I 
suppose,  and  knows  that  he  has  ruined  my  career." 

"  Is  the  Carlylean  reminiscence  taken  from  the 
biography?"  inquired  Simms. 

"  That  is  the  sore  point,"  answered  Wingfield, 
sullenly.     "  He  used  to  shun  society,  but  now  he 

180 


THE   WIGWAM 

goes  to  clubs,  banquets,  and  '  At  Homes,'  and  tells 
the  choice  things  in  the  memoir  at  every  one  of 
them.  The  book  will  scarcely  be  worth  prmtmg 
now." 

"  I  daresay  he  feels  sorry  for  you,"  said  Simms, 
"  and  sees  that  he  has  placed  you  in  a  false  po- 
sition." 

"  He  does  in  a  way,"  replied  the  literary  execu- 
tor, "  and  yet  I  irritate  him.  When  he  was  ill  last 
December  I  called  to  ask  for  him  every  day,  but 
he  mistook  my  motives ;  and  now  he  is  frightened 
to  be  left  alone  with  me." 

"  It  is  a  sad  business,"  said  Simms,  "but  we  all 
have  our  trials." 

"  I  would  try  to  bear  up  better,"  said  the  sad 
man,  "  if  I  got  more  sympathy." 

It  was  very  late  when  Simms  and  Rob  left  the 
Wigwam,  yet  they  were  amongst  the  first  to  go. 

"  When  does  the  club  close  ?  "  Rob  asked,  as 
they  got  into  the  fresh  air. 

"  No  one  knows,"  answered  Simms,  wearily, 
"  but  I  believe  the  last  man  to  go  takes  in  the 
morning's  milk." 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  Rob  worked  hard  at 
political  articles  for  the  IVire^  and  at  last  began  to 
feel  that  he  was  making  some  headway.  He  had 
not  the  fatal  facility  for  scribbling  that  distinguishes 
some  journalists,  but  he  had  felt  life  before  he  took 
to  writing.    His  style  was  forcible  if  not  superfine, 

181 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

and  he  had  the  faculty  that  makes  a  journalist,  of 
only  seeing  things  from  one  point  of  view.  The 
successful  political  writer  is  blind  in  one  eye. 

Though  one  in  three  of  Rob's  articles  was  now 
used,  the  editor  of  the  IFire  did  not  write  to  say 
that  he  liked  them,  and  Rob  never  heard  any  one 
mention  them.  Even  Simms  would  not  read  them, 
but  then  Simms  never  read  any  paper.  He  got  his 
news  from  the  placards,  and  bought  the  Scalping 
Knifc\  not  to  read  his  own  articles,  but  to  measure 
them  and  calculate  how  much  he  would  get  for 
them.     Then  he  dropped  them  into  the  gutter. 

Some  weeks  had  passed  without  Rob's  seeing 
Simms,  when  one  day  he  got  a  letter  that  made 
him  walk  round  and  round  his  table  like  a  circus 
horse.  It  was  from  the  editor  of  the  IVire  asking 
him  to  be  in  readiness  to  come  to  the  office  any 
evening  he  might  be  wanted  to  write.  This  looked 
like  a  step  toward  an  appointment  on  the  staff  if 
he  gave  satisfaction  (a  proviso  which  he  took  com- 
placently), and  Rob's  chest  expanded,  till  the  room 
seemed  quite  small.  He  pictured  Thrums  again. 
He  jumped  to  Mary  Abinger,  and  then  he  distinctly 
saw  himself  in  the  editorial  chair  of  the  'T'i?ncs.  He 
was  lying  back  in  it,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  giving  a 
Cabinet  minister  five  minutes. 

Nearly  six  months  had  passed  since  Rob  saw 
Miss  Abinger — a  long  time  for  a  young  man  to 
remain  in  love  with   tlie  same  person.     Of  late 

182 


THE   WIGWAM 

Rob  had  been  less  given  to  dreaming  than  may  be 
expected  of  a  man  who  classifies  the  other  sex 
into  one  particular  lady  and  others,  but  Mary  was 
coming  to  London  in  the  early  summer,  and  when 
he  thought  of  summer  he  meant  Mary.  Rob  was 
oftener  in  Piccadilly  in  May  than  he  had  been  dur- 
ing the  previous  four  months,  and  he  was  always 
looking  for  somebody.  It  was  the  third  of  June, 
a  day  to  be  remembered  in  his  life,  that  he  heard 
from  the  editor  of  the  Wire.  At  five  o'clock  he 
looked  upon  that  as  what  made  it  a  day  of  days, 
but  he  had  changed  his  mind  by  a  quarter  past. 

Rob  had  a  silk  hat  now,  and  he  thrust  it  on  his 
head,  meaning  to  run  downstairs  to  tell  Simms 
of  his  good  fortune.  He  was  in  the  happy  frame 
of  mind  that  makes  a  man  walk  round  improba- 
bilities, and  for  the  first  time  since  he  came  to 
London  he  felt  confident  of  the  future,  without 
becoming  despondent  immediately  afterwards. 
The  future,  like  the  summer,  was  an  allegory  tor 
Miss  Abinger.  For  the  moment  Rob's  heart  filled 
with  compassion  for  Simms.  The  one  thing  our 
minds  will  not  do  is  leave  our  neighbour  alone, 
and  Rob  had  some  time  before  reached  the  con- 
clusion that  Simms's  nature  had  been  twisted  by  a 
disappointment  in  love.  There  was  nothing  else 
that  could  account  for  his  fits  of  silence,  his  indif- 
ference to  the  future.  He  was  known  to  have 
given  the  coat  off  his  back    to  some   miserable 

]83 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

creature  in  the  street,  and  to  have  been  annoyed 
when  he  discovered  that  a  friend  saw  him  do  it. 
Thcugh  Simms's  walls  were  covered  with  engrav- 
ings Rob  remembered  all  at  once  that  there  was 
not  a  female  figure  in  one  of  them. 

To  sympathise  with  others  in  a  love  affair  is 
delightful  to  every  one  who  feels  that  he  is  all  right 
himself  Rob  went  down  to  Simms's  rooms  with 
joyous  step  and  a  light  heart.  The  outer  door 
stood  ajar,  and  as  he  pushed  it  open  he  heard  a 
voice  that  turned  his  face  white.  From  where  he 
stood  paralysed  he  saw  through  the  dark  passage 
into  the  sitting-room.  Mary  Abinger  was  standing 
before  the  fireplace,  and  as  Rob's  arm  fell  from  the 
door,  Simms  bent  forward  and  kissed  her. 


184 


CHAPTER  XI 

ROB    IS   STRUCK    DOWN 

Rob  turned  from  SImms's  door  and  went  quietly- 
downstairs,  looking  to  the  beadle,  who  gave  him  a 
good  evening  at  the  mouth  of  the  inn,  like  a  man 
going  quietly  to  his  work.  He  could  not  keep  his 
thoughts.  They  fell  about  him  in  sparks,  raised 
by  a  wheel  whirling  so  fast  that  it  seemed  motion- 
less. 

Sleep-walkers  seldom  come  to  damage  until  they 
awake ;  and  Rob  sped  on,  taking  crossings  without 
a  halt ;  deaf  to  the  shouts  of  cabmen,  blind  to  their 
gesticulations.  When  you  have  done  Oxford 
Circus  you  can  do  anything ;  but  he  was  not  even 
brought  to  himself  there,  though  it  is  all  savage 
lands  in  twenty  square  yards.  For  a  time  he  saw 
nothing  but  that  scene  in  Simms's  chambers,  which 
had  been  photographed  on  his  brain.  The  light  of 
his  life  had  suddenly  been  turned  out,  leaving  him 
only  the  last  thing  he  saw  to  think  about. 

By  and  by  he  was  walking  more  slowly,  laughing 
at  himself  Since  he  met  Mary  Abinger  she  had 
lived  so  much  in  his  mind  that  he  had  not  dared  to 

185 


WHEN   A   MAN'S    SINGLE 

think  of  losing  her.  He  had  only  given  himself 
fits  of  despondency  for  the  pleasure  of  dispelling 
them.  Now  all  at  once  he  saw  without  prejudice 
the  Rob  Angus  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
carry  off  this  prize,  and  he  cut  such  a  poor  figure 
that  he  smiled  grimly  at  it.  He  realized  as  a 
liumorous  conception  that  this  uncouth  young  man 
who  was  himself  must  have  fancied  that  he  was,  ori 
the  whole,  less  unw^orthy  of  Miss  Abinger  than 
were  most  of  the  young  men  she  was  likely  to 
meet.  With  the  exaggerated  humility  that  comes 
occasionally  to  men  in  his  condition,  without,  how- 
ever, feeling  sufficiently  at  home  to  remain  long, 
he  felt  that  there  was  everything  in  Simms  a  girl 
could  find  lovable,  and  nothing  in  himself  He 
was  so  terribly  open  that  any  one  could  understand 
him,  while  Simms  was  such  an  enigma  as  a  girl 
would  love  to  read.  His  own  clumsiness  con- 
trasted as  disastrously  with  Simms's  grace  of  man- 
ner as  his  blunt  talk  compared  with  Simms's  wit. 
Not  being  able  to  see  himself  with  the  eyes  of 
others,  Rob  noted  only  one  thing  in  his  favour,  his 
fight  forward;  which  they,  knowing,  for  instance, 
that  he  was  better  to  look  at  than  most  men,  would 
have  considered  his  chief  drawback.  Rob  in  his 
calmer  moments  had  perhaps  as  high  an  opinion 
of  his  capacity  as  the  circumstances  warranted,  but 
he  never  knew  that  a  good  many  ladies  felt  his 
presence  when  he  passed  them. 

186 


ROB   IS   STRUCK   DOWN 

Mu6t  men  are  hero  and  villain  several  times  in  a 
day,  but  Rob  went  through  the  whole  gamut  of 
sensations  in  half  an  hour,  hating  himself  the  one 
moment  for  what  seemed  another's  fault  the  next, 
fancying  now  that  he  was  blessing  the  union  of 
Mary  with  the  man  she  cared  for,  and,  again,  that 
he  had  Simms  by  the  throat.  He  fled  from  the 
fleeting  form  of  woman,  and  ran  after  it. 

Simms  had  deceived  him,  had  never  even  men- 
tioned Silchester,  had  laughed  at  the  awakening 
that  was  coming  to  him.  All  these  months  they 
had  been  waiting  for  Mary  Abinger  together,  and 
Simms  had  not  said  that  when  she  came  it  would 
be  to  him.  Then  Rob  saw  what  a  foolish  race 
these  thoughts  ran  in  his  brain,  remembering  that 
he  had  only  seen  Simms  twice  for  more  than  a 
moment,  and  that  he  himself  had  never  talked  of 
Silchester.  He  scorned  his  own  want  of  generosity, 
and  recalled  his  solicitude  for  Simms's  welfare  an 
hour  before. 

Rob  saw  his  whole  future  life  lying  before  him. 
The  broken-looking  man  with  the  sad  face  aged 
before  his  time,  who  walked  alone  up  Fleet  Street, 
was  Rob  Angus,  who  had  come  to  London  to  be 
happy.  Simms  would  ask  him  sometimes  to  his 
house  to  see  her,  but  it  was  better  that  he  should 
not  go.  She  would  understand  why,  if  her  husband 
did  not.  Her  husband  I  Rob  could  not  gulp  down 
the  lump  in  his  throat.    He  rushed  on  again,  with 

187 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

nothing  before  him  but  that  picture  of  Simms  kiss- 
ing her. 

Simms  was  not  worthy  of  her.  Why  had  he 
always  seemed  an  unhappy,  disappointed  man  if 
the  one  thing  in  the  world  worth  striving  for  was 
his  *?  Rob  stopped  abruptly  in  the  street  with  the 
sudden  thought,  Was  it  possible  that  she  did  not 
care  for  Simms?  Could  that  scene  have  had  any 
other  meaning  *?  He  had  once  heard  Simms  him- 
self say  that  you  never  knew  what  a  woman  meant 
by  anything  until  she  told  you,  and  probably  not 
even  then.  But  he  saw  again  the  love  in  her  eyes 
as  she  looked  up  into  Simms's  face.  All  through 
his  life  he  would  carry  that  look  with  him. 

They  took  no  distinct  shape,  but  wild  ways  of 
ending  his  misery  coursed  through  his  brain,  and 
he  looked  on  calmly  at  his  own  funeral.  A  terrible 
stolidity  seized  him,  and  he  conceived  himself  a 
monster  from  whom  the  capacity  to  sympathize 
had  gone.  Children  saw  his  face  and  fled  from 
him. 

He  had  left  England  far  behind,  and  dwelt  now 
among  wild  tribes  who  had  not  before  looked  upon 
a  white  face.  Their  sick  came  to  him  for  miracles, 
and  he  either  cured  them  or  told  them  to  begone. 
He  was  not  sure  whether  he  was  a  fiend  or  a  mis- 
sionary. 

Then  something  remarkable  happened,  which 
showed  that  Rob  had  not  mistaken  his  professioa 

188 


ROB   IS   STRUCK   DOWN 

He  saw  himself  in  the  editorial  chair  that  he  had 
so  often  coveted,  and  Mary  Abinger,  too,  was  in 
the  room.  Always  previously  when  she  had  come 
between  him  and  the  paper  he  had  been  forced  to 
lay  down  his  pen,  but  now  he  wrote  on  and  on,  and 
she  seemed  to  help  him.  He  was  describing  the 
scene  that  he  had  witnessed  in  Simms's  chambers, 
describing  it  so  vividly  that  he  heard  the  great  pub- 
lic discussing  his  article  as  if  it  were  an  Academy 
picture.  His  passion  had  subsided,  and  the  best 
words  formed  slowly  in  his  brain.  He  was  hesi- 
tating about  the  most  fitting  title,  when  some  one 
struck  against  him,  and  as  he  drew  his  arm  over 
his  eyes  he  knew  with  horror  that  he  had  been 
turning  Mary  Abinger  into  copy. 

For  the  last  time  that  night  Rob  dreamt  again, 
and  now  it  was  such  a  fine  picture  he  drew  that  he 
looked  upon  it  with  sad  complacency.  Many 
years  had  passed.  He  was  now  rich  and  famous. 
He  passed  through  the  wynds  of  Thrums,  and  the 
Auld  Lichts  turned  out  to  gaze  at  him.  He  saw 
himself  signing  cheques  for  all  kinds  of  charitable 
objects,  and  appearing  in  the  subscription  lists, 
with  a  grand  disregard  for  glory  that  is  not  common 
to  philanthropists,  as  X.  Y.  Z.  or  "  A  well-wisher." 
His  walls  were  lined  with  books  written  by  him- 
self, and  Mary  Abinger  (who  had  not  changed  in 
the  least  with  the  years)  read  them  proudly,  know- 
ing that  they  were  all  written  for  her.     (Simms 

189 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

somehow  had  not  fulfilled  his  promise.)  The 
papers  were  full  of  his  speech  in  the  House  of 
Commons  the  night  before,  and  he  had  declined  a 
seat  in  the  Cabinet  from  conscientious  motives. 
His  imagination  might  soon  have  landed  him 
master  in  the  Mansion  House,  had  it  not  deserted 
him  when  he  had  most  need  of  it.  He  fell  from 
his  balloon  like  a  stone.  Before  him  he  saw  the 
blank  years  that  had  to  be  traversed  without  any 
Mary  Abinger,  and  despair  filled  his  soul.  All  the 
horrible  meaning  of  the  scene  he  had  fled  from 
came  to  him  like  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  and 
he  stood  with  it,  glaring  at  it,  in  the  middle  of  a 
roaring  street.  Three  hansoms  shaved  him  by  an 
inch,  and  the  fourth  knocked  him  senseless. 

An  hour  later  Simms  was  lolling  in  his  chambers 
smoking,  his  chair  tilted  back  until  another  inch 
would  have  sent  him  over  it.  His  gas  had  been 
blazing  all  day  because  he  had  no  blotting-paper, 
and  the  blinds  were  nicely  pulled  down  because 
Mary  Abinger  and  Nell  were  there  to  do  it.  They 
were  sitting  on  each  side  of  him,  and  Nell  had  on 
a  round  cap,  about  which  Simms  subsequently 
wrote  an  article.  Mary's  hat  was  larger  and  turned 
up  at  one  side  ;  the  fashion  which  arose  through  a 
carriage  wheel's  happening  to  pass  over  the  hat  of 
a  leader  of  fashion  and  make  it  perfectly  lovely. 
Beyond  the  hats  one  does  not  care  to  venture,  but 
out  of  fairness  to  Mary  and  Nell  it  should  be  said 

190 


ROB   IS   STRUCK   DOWN 

that  there   were  no   shiny  little   beads   on   their 
dresses. 

They  had  put  on  their  hats  to  go,  and  then  they 
had  sat  down  again  to  tell  their  host  a  great  many 
things  that  they  had  told  him  already.  Even  Mary, 
who  was  perfect  in  a  general  sort  of  way,  took  a 
considerable  time  to  tell  a  story,  and  expected  it  to 
have  more  point  when  it  ended  than  was  sometimes 
the  case.  Simms,  with  his  eyes  half  closed,  let  the 
laughter  ripple  over  his  head,  and  drowsily  heard 
the  details  of  their  journey  from  Silchester  afresh. 
Mary  had  come  up  with  the  Merediths  on  the 
previous  day,  and  they  were  now  staying  at  the 
Langham  Hotel.  They  would  only  be  in  town 
for  a  few  weeks ;  "just  to  oblige  the  season,"  Nell 
said,  for  she  had  inveigled  her  father  into  taking  a 
houseboat  on  the  Thames,  and  was  certain  it  would 
prove  delightful.  Mary  was  to  accompany  them 
there  too,  having  first  done  her  duty  to  society,  and 
Colonel  Abinger  was  setting  off  shortly  for  the 
continent.  In  the  middle  of  her  prattle,  Nell  dis- 
tinctly saw  Simms's  head  nod,  as  if  it  was  loose  in 
its  socket.     She  made  a  mournful  grimace. 

Simms  sat  up. 

"  Your  voices  did  it,"  he  explained,  unabashed. 
"  They  are  as  soothing  to  the  jaded  journalist  as  the 
streams  that  murmur  through  the  fields  in  June." 

"Cigars  are  making  you  stupid,  Dick,"  said 
Mary ;  "  I  do  wonder  why  men  smoke." 

191 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  I  have  often  asked  myself  that  question," 
thoughtfully  answered  Simms,  whom  it  is  time  to 
call  by  his  real  name  of  Dick  Abinger.  "  I  know 
some  men  who  smoke  because  they  might  get  sick 
otherwise  when  in  the  company  of  smokers.  Others 
smoke  because  they  began  to  do  so  at  school,  and 
are  now  afraid  to  leave  off.  A  great  many  men 
smoke  for  philanthropic  motives,  smoking  enabling 
them  to  work  harder,  and  so  being  for  their  family's 
good.  At  picnics  men  smoke  because  it  is  the  only 
way  to  keep  the  midges  off  the  ladies.  Smoking 
keeps  you  cool  in  summer  and  warm  in  winter,  and 
is  an  excellent  disinfectant.  There  are  even  said 
to  be  men  who  admit  that  they  smoke  because 
they  like  it,  but  for  my  own  part  I  fancy  I  smoke 
because  I  forget  not  to  do  so." 

"Silly  reason,"  said  Nell.  If  there  was  one 
possible  improvement  she  could  conceive  in  Dick, 
it  was  that  he  might  make  his  jests  a  little  easier. 

"  It  is  revealing  no  secret,"  murmured  Abinger 
in  reply,  "  to  say  that  drowning  men  clutch  at 
straws." 

Mary  rose  to  go  once  more,  and  sat  down  again, 
for  she  had  remembered  something  else. 

"  Do  you  know,  Dick,"  she  said,  "  that  your  two 
names  are  a  great  nuisance.  On  our  way  to  Lon- 
don yesterday  there  was  an  acquaintance  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  in  the  carriage,  and  he  told  us  he  knew 
Noble  Simms  well." 

192 


ROB   IS   STRUCK   DOWN 

"  Yes,"  said  Nell,  "and  that  this  Noble  Slmms 
was  an  old  gentleman  who  had  been  married  for 
thirty  years.  We  said  we  knew  Mr.  Noble  Simms, 
and  that  he  was  a  barrister,  and  he  laughed  at  us. 
So  you  see  some  one  is  trading  on  your  name." 

"  Much  good  may  it  do  him,"  said  Abinger, 
generously. 

"  But  it  is  horrid,"  said  Nell,  "  that  we  should 
have  to  listen  to  people  praising  Noble  Simms's 
writings,  and  not  be  allowed  to  say  that  he  is  Dick 
Abinger  in  disguise." 

"  It  must  be  very  hard  on  you,  Nell,  to  have  to 
keep  a  secret,"  admitted  Dick,  "  but  you  see  I  must 
lead  two  lives  or  be  undone.  In  the  Temple  you 
will  see  the  name  of  Richard  Abinger,  barrister-at- 
law,  but  in  Frobisher's  Inn  he  is  J.  Noble  Simms." 

"  I  don't  see  the  good  of  it,"  said  Nell. 

"  My  ambition,  you  must  remember,"  explained 
Dick,  "  is  to  be  Lord  Chancellor  or  Lord  Chief 
Justice,  I  forget  which,  but  while  I  wait  for  that 
post  I  must  live,  and  I  live  by  writings  (which  are 
all  dead  the  morning  after  they  appear).  Now  such 
is  the  suspicion  with  which  literature  is  regarded 
by  the  legal  mind  that  were  it  known  I  wrote  for 
the  press  my  chance  of  the  Lord  Chancellorship 
would  cease  to  be  a  moral  certainty.  The  editor 
of  the  Scalping  Knife  has  not  the  least  notion  that 
Noble  Simms  is  the  rising  barrister  who  has  been 
known  to  make  as  much  by  the  law  as  a  guinea  in 


WHEN   A   MAN  S   SINGLE 

a  single  month.  Indeed,  only  my  most  intimate 
friends,  some  of  whom  practise  the  same  deception 
themselves,  are  aware  that  the  singular  gifts  of 
Simms  and  Abinger  are  united  in  the  same  person." 

"The  housekeeper  here  must  know*?"  asked 
Mary. 

"  No,  it  would  hopelessly  puzzle  her,"  said  Dick  ; 
"she  would  think  there  was  something  uncanny 
about  it,  and  so  she  is  happy  in  the  belief  that  the 
letters  which  occasionally  come  addressed  to  Abin- 
ger are  forwarded  by  me  to  that  gentleman's  abode 
in  the  Temple." 

"  It  is  such  an  ugly  name,  Noble  Simms,"  said 
Nell ;  "  I  wonder  why  you  selected  it." 

"It  is  ugly,  is  it  not?  "  said  Dick.  "  It  struck 
me  at  the  time  as  the  most  ridiculous  name  I  was 
likely  to  think  of,  and  so  I  chose  it.  Such  a  re- 
markable name  sticks  to  the  public  mind,  and  that 
is  fame." 

As  he  spoke  he  rose  to  get  the  two  girls  the  cab 
that  would  take  them  back  to  the  hotel. 

"  There  is  some  one  knocking  at  the  door,"  said 
Mary. 

"  Come  in,"  murmured  Abinger. 

The  housekeeper  opened  the  door,  but  half  shut 
it  again  when  she  saw  that  Dick  was  not  alone. 
Then  she  thought  of  a  compromise  between  telling 
her  business  and  retiring. 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.   Simms,"  she  said,  apolo- 

194 


-ROB  IS   STRUCK   DOWN 

geticaiiy,  "  would  you  speak  to  me  a  moment  in 
the  passage  '^  " 

Abinger  disappeared  with  her,  and  when  he 
returned  the  indifferent  look  had  gone  from  his 
face. 

"  Wait  for  me  a  few  minutes,"  he  said  ;  "  a  man 
upstairs,  one  of  the  best  fellows  breathing,  has  met 
with  an  accident,  and  I  question  if  he  has  a  friend 
in  London.     I  am  going  up  to  see  him." 

"  Poor  fellow  I "  said  Mary  to  Nell,  after  Dick 
had  gone  ;  "  fancy  his  lying  here  for  weeks  without 
any  one's  going  near  him  but  Dick," 

"But  how  much  worse  it  would  be  without 
Dick  !  "  said  Nell. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  is  a  barrister,"  said  Mary. 

"  I  think  he  will  be  a  journalist  rather,"  Nell 
said,  thoughtfully,  "  a  tall,  dark,  melancholy-look- 
**ig  man,  and  I  should  not  wonder  though  he  had 
a  broken  heart." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  more  serious  than  that,"  said 
Mary. 

Nell  set  off  on  a  trip  round  the  room,  remarking 
with  a  profound  sigh  that  it  must  be  awful  to  live 
afone  and  have  no  one  to  speak  to  for  whole  hours 
at  a  time.  "  I  should  go  mad,"  she  said,  in  such  a 
tone  of  conviction  that  Mary  did  not  think  of 
questioning  it. 

Then  Nell,  who  had  opened  a  drawer  rather 
guiltily,  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  Mary  I  " 

195 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

A  woman  can  put  more  meaning  into  a  note  of 
exclamation  than  a  man  can  pack  in  a  sentence. 
It  costs  Mr.  Jones,  for  instance,  a  long  message 
simply  to  telegraph  to  his  wife  that  he  is  bringing 
a  friend  home  to  dinner,  but  in  a  sixpenny  reply 
Mrs.  Jones  can  warn  him  that  he  had  better  do  no 
such  thing,  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself 
for  thinking  of  it,  that  he  must  make  some  excuse 
to  his  friend,  and  that  he  will  hear  more  of  this 
when  he  gets  home.  Nell's  "  Oh,  Mary  I  "  signi- 
fied that  chaos  was  come. 

Mary  hastened  round  the  table,  and  found  her 
friend  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Well,"  said  Mary,  "  that  is  one  of  your  letters 
to  Dick,  is  it  not*?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Nell,  tragically;  "but  fancy 
his  keeping  my  letters  lying  about  carelessly  in  a 
drawer  —  and  —  and,  yes,  using  them  as  scribbling 
paper !  " 

Scn^wled  across  the  envelopes  in  a  barely  de- 
cipherable handwriting  were  such  notes  as  these : 
*'  Schoolboys  smoking  master's  cane-chair,  work 
up ; "  "  Return  of  the  swallows  (poetic  or  hu- 
morous ?)  ;  "  "  My  First  Murder  (magazine  ?) ; " 
"  Better  do  something  pathetic  for  a  change." 

There  were  tears  in  Nell's  eyes. 

"  This  comes  of  prying,"  said  Mary. 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  prying,"  said  Nell;  "I  only 
opened  it  by  accident.     That  is  the  worst  of  it.    I 

iq6 


ROB   IS   STRUCK   DOWN 

can't  say  anything  about  them  to  him,  because  he 
might  think  I  had  opened  his  drawer  to  —  to  see 
what  was  in  it  —  which  is  the  last  thing  in  the  world 
I  would  think  of  doing.  Oh,  Mary,"  she  added, 
woefully,  "  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  a  goose,"  said  Mary,  promptly. 

"  Ah,  you  are  so  indifferent,"  Nell  said,  surrend- 
ering her  position  all  at  once.  "  Now  when  I  see 
a  drawer  I  am  quite  unhappy  until  I  know  what 
is  in  it,  especially  if  it  is  locked.  When  we  lived 
opposite  the  Burtons  I  was  miserable  because  they 
always  kept  the  blind  of  one  of  their  windows  down. 
If  I  had  been  a  boy  I  would  have  climbed  up  to 
see  why  they  did  it.  Ah  I  that  is  Dick ;  I  know 
his  step." 

She  was  hastening  to  the  door,  when  she  re- 
membered the  letters,  and  subsided  primly  into  a 
chair. 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Mary,  as  her  brother  re-entered 
with  something  in  his  hand. 

"The  poor  fellow  has  had  a  nasty  accident," 
said  Dick ;  "  run  over  in  the  street,  it  seems.  He 
ought  to  have  been  taken  to  the  infirmary,  but  they 
got  a  letter  with  his  address  on  it  in  his  pocket, 
and  brought  him  here." 

"  Has  a  doctor  seen  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  hardly  make  out  from  the  house- 
keeper what  he  said.  He  was  gone  before  I  went 
up.     There  are  some  signs,  however,  of  what  he 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

did.     The  poor  fellow  seems  to  have  been  struck 
on  the  head." 

Mary  shuddered,  understanding  that  some  oper- 
ation had  been  found  necessary. 

"  Did  he  speak  to  you  ?  "  asked  Nell. 

"  He  was  asleep,"  said  Dick,  "  but  talking  more 
than  he  does  when  he  is  awake." 

"  He  must  have  been  delirious,"  said  Mary. 

"  One  thing  I  can't  make  out,"  Dick  said,  more 
to  himself  than  to  his  companions.  "  He  mumbled 
my  name  to  himself  half  a  dozen  times  while  I 
was  upstairs." 

"  But  is  there  anything  remarkable  in  that,"  asked 
Mary,  "  if  he  has  so  few  friends  in  London  ?  " 

"  What  I  don't  understand,"  explained  Dick,  "  is 
that  the  word  I  caught  was  Abinger.  Now,  I  am 
quite  certain  that  he  only  knew  me  as  Noble  Simms." 

"  Some  one  must  have  told  him  your  real  name," 
said  Mary.     "  Is  he  asleep  now  *?  " 

"  That  reminds  me  of  another  thing,"  said  Dick, 
looking  at  the  torn  card  in  his  hand.  "  Just  as  I 
was  coming  away  he  staggered  off  the  couch  where 
he  is  lying  to  his  desk,  opened  it,  and  took  out  this 
card.  He  glared  at  it,  and  tore  it  in  two  before  I 
got  him  back  to  the  couch. 

There  were  tears  in  Nell's  eyes  now,  for  she  felt 
that  she  understood  it  all. 

"  It  is  horrible  to  think  of  him  alone  up  there," 
she  cried.     "  Let  us  go  up  to  him,  Mary." 

198 


ROB   IS   STRUCK   DOWN 

Mary  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  be  the  thing,"  she  said, 
taking  the  card  from  Nell's  hand.  She  started 
slightly  as  she  looked  at  it,  and  then  became  white. 

"  What  is  his  name,  Dick  ?  "  she  faltered,  in  a 
voice  that  made  Nell  look  at  her. 

"  Angus,"  said  Dick.  "  He  has  been  on  the 
press  here  for  some  months." 

The  name  suggested  nothing  at  the  moment  to 
Nell,  but  Mary  let  the  card  fall.  It  was  a  shabby 
little  Christmas  card. 

"  I  think  we  should  go  up  and  see  if  we  can  do 
anything,"  Dick's  sister  said. 

"  But  would  it  be  the  thing  *?  "  Nell  asked. 

"  Of  course,  it  would,"  said  Mary,  a  little  sur- 
prised at  Nell. 


199 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  STUPID  SEX 

Give  a  man  his  chance,  and  he  has  sufficient  hardi- 
hood for  anything.  Within  a  week  of  the  accident 
Rob  was  in  Dick  Abinger's  most  luxurious  chair, 
coolly  taking  a  cup  and  saucer  from  Nell,  while 
Mary  arranged  a  cushion  for  his  poor  head.  He 
even  made  several  light-hearted  jests,  at  which  his 
nurses  laughed  heartily  —  because  he  was  an  in- 
valid. 

Rob's  improvement  dated  from  the  moment  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  heard  the  soft  rustle  of  a 
lady's  skirts  in  the  next  room.  He  lay  quietly 
listening,  and  realized  by  and  by  that  he  had 
known  she  was  Mary  Abinger  all  along. 

"  Who  is  that?  "  he  said,  abruptly,  to  Dick,  who 
was  swinging  his  legs  on  the  dressing-table.  Dick 
came  to  him  as  awkwardly  as  if  he  had  been  asked 
to  hold  a  baby,  and  saw  no  way  of  getting  out  of 
it.     Sick-rooms  chilled  him. 

"  Are  you  feeling  better  now,  old  fellow  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Who  is  it  *?  "  Rob  repeated,  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"  That  is  my  sister,"  Dick  said. 

200 


THE   STUPID   SEX 

Rob's  head  fell  back.  He  could  not  take  it  in 
all  at  once.  Dick  thought  he  had  fallen  asleep,  and 
tried  to  slip  gently  from  the  room,  discovering  for 
the  first  time  as  he  did  so  that  his  shoes  creaked. 

"  Don't  go,"  said  Rob,  sitting  up  again.  "  What 
is  your  sister's  name  *?  " 

"  Abinger,  of  course,  Mary  Abinger,"  answered 
Dick,  under  the  conviction  that  the  invalid  was 
still  off  his  head.  He  made  for  the  door  again, 
but  Rob's  arm  went  out  suddenly  and  seized  him. 

"  You  are  a  liar,  you  know,"  Rob  said,  feebly ; 
"  she's  not  your  sister." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Dick,  humouring  him. 

"  I  want  to  see  her,"  Rob  said,  authoritatively. 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Dick,  escaping  into  the 
other  room,  to  tell  Mary  that  the  patient  was  rav- 
ing again. 

"  I  heard  him,"  said  Mary. 

"  Well,  what's  to  be  done  ?  "  asked  her  brother. 
"  He's  madder  than  ever." 

"Oh  no,  I  think  he's  getting  on  nicely  now," 
Mary  said,  moving  toward  the  bedroom. 

"Don't,"  exclaimed  Dick,  getting  in  front  of 
her ;  "  why,  I  tell  you  his  mind  is  wandering. 
He  says  you're  not  my  sister." 

"  Of  course  he  can't  understand  so  long  as  he 
thinks  your  name  is  Simms." 

"  But  he  knows  my  name  is  Abinger.  Didn't  I 
tell  you  I  heard  him  groaning  it  over  to  himself?  " 

201 


WHEN   A   MANS   SINGLE 

"  Oh,  Dick,"  said  Mary,  "  I  wish  you  would  go 
away  and  write  a  stupid  article." 

Dick,  however,  stood  at  the  door,  ready  to  come 
to  his  sister's  assistance  if  Rob  got  violent. 

"  He  says  you  are  his  sister,"  said  the  patient  to 
Mary. 

"  So  I  am,"  said  Mary,  softly.  "  My  brother 
writes  under  the  name  of  Noble  Simms,  but  his 
real  name  is  Abinger.  Now  you  must  lie  still  and 
think  about  that ;  you  are  not  to  talk  any  more." 

"I  won't  talk  any  more,"  said  Rob,  slowly. 
"  You  are  not  going  away,  though  ?  " 

"  Just  for  a  little  while,"  Mary  answered.  "  The 
doctor  will  be  here  presently." 

"  Well,  you  have  quieted  him,"  Dick  admitted. 

They  were  leaving  the  room,  when  they  heard 
Rob  calling. 

"  There  he  goes  again,"  said  Dick,  groaning. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  Mary  asked,  returning  to  the 
bedroom. 

"  Why  did  he  say  you  were  not  his  sister  ? " 
Rob  said,  very  suspiciously. 

"  Oh,  his  mind  was  wandering,"  Mary  answered, 
cruelly. 

She  was  retiring  again,  but  stopped  undecidedly. 
Then  she  looked  from  the  door  to  see  if  her  brother 
was  within  hearing.  Dick  was  at  the  other  end  of 
the  sitting-room,  and  she  came  back  noiselessly  to 
Rob's  bedside. 

202 


THE   STUPID   SEX 

"  Do  you  remember,"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice, 
"how  the  accident  happened?  You  know  you 
were  struck  by  a  cab." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Rob  at  once,  "  I  saw  him 
kissing  you.  I  don't  remember  anything  after 
that." 

Mary,  looking  like  a  culprit,  glanced  hurriedly 
at  the  door.  Then  she  softly  pushed  the  invalid's 
unruly  hair  off  his  brow,  and  glided  from  the  room 
smiling. 

"Well?"  asked  Dick. 

"  He  was  telling  me  how  the  accident  happened," 
Mary  said. 

"  And  how  was  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  just  as  you  said.  He  got  bewildered  at  a 
crossing,  and  was  knocked  over." 

"  But  he  wasn't  the  man  to  lose  his  reason  at 
a  crossing,"  said  Dick.  "  There  must  have  been 
something  to  agitate  him." 

"He  said  nothing  about  that,"  replied  Mary, 
without  blushing. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  how  he  knew  my  name  was 
Abinger  ?  "  Dick  asked,  as  they  went  downstairs. 

"  No,"  his  sister  said,  "  I  forgot  to  ask  him." 

"  There  was  that  Christmas  card,  too,"  Dick  said, 
suddenly.  "Nell  says  Angus  must  be  in  love, 
poor  fellow." 

"Nell  is  always  thinking  people  are  in  love," 
Mary  answered,  severely. 

203 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Dick,  "  what  became  of  the 
card  *?     He  might  want  to  treasure  it,  you  know." 

"I  —  I  rather  think  I  put  it  somewhere,"  Mary 
said. 

"  I  wonder,"  Dick  remarked,  curiously,  "  what 
sort  of  girl  Angus  would  take  to  *?  " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Mary. 

They  were  back  in  Dick's  chambers  by  this 
time,  and  he  continued  with  some  complacency 
—  for  all  men  think  they  are  on  safe  ground  when 
discussing  an  affair  of  the  heart :  — 

"  We  could  build  the  young  lady  up  from  the 
card,  which,  presumably,  was  her  Christmas  offer- 
ing to  him.  It  was  not  expensive,  so  she  is  a 
careful  young  person;  and  the  somewhat  florid 
design  represents  a  blue  bird  sitting  on  a  pink 
twig,  so  that  we  may  hazard  the  assertion  that  her 
artistic  taste  is  not  as  yet  fully  developed.  She  is 
a  fresh  country  maid,  or  the  somewhat  rich  colour- 
ing would  not  have  taken  her  fancy,  and  she  is 
short,  a  trifle  stout,  or  a  big  man  like  Angus  would 
not  have  fallen  in  love  with  her.  Reserved  men 
like  gushing  girls,  so  she  gushes  and  says  '  Oh  my  I ' 
and  her  nicest  dress  (here  Dick  shivered)  is  of  a 
shiny  satin  with  a  dash  of  rich  velvet  here  and 
there.     Do  you  follow  me  *?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mary;  "it  is  wonderful.  I  sup- 
pose, now,  you  are  never  wrong  when  you  '  build 
up '  so  much  on  so  little  *?  " 

204 


THE   STUPID   SEX 

"Sometimes  we  go  a  little  astray,"  admitted 
Dick.  "  I  remember  going  into  a  hotel  with 
Rorrison  once,  and  on  a  table  we  saw  a  sailor-hat 
lying,  something  like  the  one  Nell  wears  —  or  is 
it  you  •?  " 

"  The  idea  of  your  not  knowing ! "  said  his  sister, 
indignantly. 

"  Well,  we  discussed  the  probable  owner.  I  con- 
cluded, after  narrowly  examining  the  hat,  that  she 
was  tall,  dark,  and  handsome,  rather  than  pretty. 
Rorrison,  on  the  other  hand,  maintained  that  she 
was  a  pretty,  baby-faced  girl,  with  winning  ways." 

"  And  did  you  discover  if  either  of  you  was 
right  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  slowly.  "  In  the  middle  of 
the  discussion  a  little  boy  in  a  velvet  suit  toddled 
into  the  room,  and  said  to  us,  '  Gim'me  my  hat.' " 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  Rob  had  many  de- 
licious experiences.  He  was  present  at  several 
tea-parties  in  Abinger's  chambers,  the  guests  being 
strictly  limited  to  three ;  and  when  he  could  not 
pretend  to  be  ill  any  longer,  he  gave  a  tea-party 
himself  in  honour  of  his  two  nurses  —  his  one  and 
a  half  nurses,  Dick  called  them.  At  this  Mary 
poured  out  the  tea,  and  Rob's  eyes  showed  so 
plainly  (though  not  to  Dick)  that  he  had  never 
seen  anything  like  it,  that  Nell  became  thoughtful, 
and  made  a  number  of  remarks  on  the  subject  to 
her  mother  as  soon  as  she  returned  home. 

205 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  It  would  never  do,"  Nell  said,  looking  wise. 

"  Whatever  would  the  colonel  say  I  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Meredith.  "  After  all,  though,"  she  added  — 
for  she  had  been  to  see  Rob  twice,  and  liked  him 
because  of  something  he  had  said  to  her  about  his 
mother  —  "he  is  just  the  same  as  Richard." 

"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  Nell,  "  Dick  is  an  Oxford 
man,  you  must  remember,  and  Mr.  Angus,  as  the 
colonel  would  say,  rose  from  obscurity." 

"  Well,  if  he  did,"  persisted  Mrs.  Meredith,  "  he 
does  not  seem  to  be  going  back  to  it,  and  univer- 
sities seem  to  me  to  be  places  for  making  young 
men  stupid." 

"  It  would  never,  never  do,"  said  Nell,  with  dole- 
ful decision. 

"  What  does  Mary  say  about  him  ?  "  asked  her 
mother. 

"  She  never  says  anything,"  said  Nell. 

"  Does  she  talk  much  to  him  *?  " 

"  No ;  very  little." 

"  That  is  a  good  sign,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Nell. 

"  Have  you  noticed  anything  else  *?  " 

"Nothing  except  —  well,  Mary  is  longer  in 
dressing  no'V  than  I  am,  and  she  used  not  to 
be." 

"  I  wonder,"  Mrs.  Meredith  remarked,  "  if  Mary 
saw  him  at  S^lchester  after  that  time  at  the  Castle?" 

"  She  never  told  me  she  did,"  Nell  answered, 

206 


THE   STUPID   SEX 

"  but  sometimes   I   think  —  however,  there  is  no 
good  in  thinking." 

"  It  isn't  a  thing  you  often  do,  Nell  By  the 
way,  he  saw  the  first  Sir  Clement  at  Dome  Castle, 
did  he  not?" 

"  Yes,"  Nell  said,  "  he  saw  the  impostor,  and  I 
don't  suppose  he  knows  there  is  another  Sir 
Clement.  The  Abingers  don't  like  to  speak  of 
that.  However,  they  may  meet  on  Friday,  for 
Dick  has  got  Mr.  Angus  a  card  for  the  Symphonia, 
and  Sir  Clement  is  to  be  there." 

"  What  does  Richard  say  about  it  *?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Meredith,  going  back  apparently  upon  their  con- 
versation. 

"  We  never  speak  about  it,  Dick  and  I,"  said 
Nell. 

"  What  do  you  speak  about,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Nell. 

Mrs.  Meredith  sighed. 

"  And  you  such  an  heiress,  Nell,"  she  said;  "you 
could  do  so  much  better.  He  will  never  have  any- 
thing but  what  he  makes  by  writing ;  and  if  all 
stories  be  true,  half  of  that  goes  to  the  '^olonel. 
I'm  sure  your  father  never  will  consent." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  will,"  Nell  said. 

"  If  he  had  really  tried  to  get  on  at  the  bar," 
Mrs.  Meredith  pursued,  "  it  would  not  have  been 
so  bad,  but  he  is  evidently  to  be  a  newspaper  man 
all  his  life." 

207 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"I  wish  you  would  say  journalist,  mamma," 
Nell  said,  pouting,  "  or  literary  man.  The  profes- 
sion of  letters  is  a  noble  one." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  Mrs.  Meredith  assented,  with 
another  sigh,  "  and  I  daresay  he  told  you  so,  but  I 
can't  think  it  is  very  respectable." 

Rob  did  not  altogether  enjoy  the  Symphonia, 
which  is  a  polite  club  attended  by  the  literary  fry 
of  both  sexes ;  the  ladies  who  write  because  they 
cannot  help  it,  the  poets  who  excuse  their  verses 
because  they  were  young  when  they  did  them,  the 
clergymen  who  publish  their  sermons  by  request 
of  their  congregations,  the  tourists  who  have  been 
to  Spain  and  cannot  keep  it  to  themselves.  The 
club  meets  once  a  fortnight,  for  the  purpose  of 
not  listening  to  music  and  recitations;  and  the 
members,  of  whom  the  ladies  outnumber  the  men, 
sit  in  groups  round  little  lions  who  roar  mildly. 
The  Symphonia  is  very  fashionable  and  select,  and 
having  heard  the  little  lions  a-roaring,  you  get  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  go  home  again. 

Dick  explained  that  he  was  a  member  of  the 
Symphonia  because  he  rather  liked  to  put  on  the 
lion's  skin  himself  now  and  again,  and  he  took 
Mrs.  Meredith  and  the  two  girls  to  it  to  show  them 
of  what  literature  in  its  higher  branches  is  capable. 
The  elegant  dresses  of  the  literary  ladies,  and  the 
suave  manner  of  the  literary  gentlemen,  impressed 
Nell's    mother  favourably,   and    the    Symphonia, 

208 


THE   STUPID   SEX 

which  she  had  taken  for  an  out-at-elbows  club, 
raised  letters  in  her  estimation. 

Rob,  however,  who  never  felt  quite  comfortable 
in  evening  dress,  had  a  bad  time  of  it,  for  Dick 
carried  him  off  at  once,  and  got  him  into  a  group 
round  the  authoress  of  "  My  Baby  Boy,"  to  whom 
Rob  was  introduced  as  a  passionate  admirer  of  her 
delightful  works.  The  lion  made  room  for  him,  and 
he  sat  sadly  beside  her,  wishing  he  was  not  so  big. 

Both  of  the  rooms  of  the  Symphonia  club  were 
crowded,  but  a  number  of  gentlemen  managed  to 
wander  from  group  to  group  over  the  skirts  of 
ladies'  gowns.  Rob  watched  them  wistfully  from 
his  cage,  and  observed  one  come  to  rest  at  the  back 
of  Mary  Abinger's  chair.  He  was  a  medium-sized 
man,  and  for  five  minutes  Rob  thought  he  was  Sir 
Clement  Dowton.  Then  he  realized  that  he  had 
been  deceived  by  a  remarkable  resemblance. 

The  stranger  said  a  great  deal  to  Mary,  and  she 
seemed  to  like  him.  After  a  long  time  the  au- 
thoress's voice  broke  in  on  Rob's  cogitations,  and 
when  he  saw  that  she  was  still  talking  without 
looking  tired,  a  certain  awe  filled  him.  Then 
Mary  rose  from  her  chair,  taking  the  arm  of  the 
gentleman  who  was  Sir  Clement's  double,  and  they 
went  into  the  other  room,  where  the  coffee  was 
served. 

Rob  was  tempted  to  sit  there  stupidly  miserable, 
for  the  easiest  thing  to  do  comes  to  us  first.    Then 

209 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

he  thought  it  was  better  to  be  a  man,  and,  drawing 
up  his  chest,  boldly  asked  the  lion  to  have  a  cup 
of  coffee.  In  another  moment  he  was  steering  her 
through  the  crowd,  her  hand  resting  on  his  arm, 
and,  to  his  amazement,  he  found  he  rather  liked  it. 

In  the  coffee-room  Rob  could  not  distinguish 
the  young  lady  who  moved  like  a  swan,  but  he 
was  elated  with  his  social  triumph,  and  cast  about 
for  any  journalist  of  his  acquaintance  who,  he 
thought,  might  like  to  meet  the  authoress  of  "  My 
Baby  Boy."  It  struck  Rob  that  he  had  no  right 
to  keep  her  all  to  himself  Quite  close  to  him 
his  eye  lighted  on  Marriott,  the  author  of  "  Mary 
Hooney:  a  Romance  of  the  Irish  Question,"  but 
Marriott  saw  what  he  was  after,  and  dived  into  the 
crowd.  A  very  young  gentleman  with  large  empty 
eyes,  begged  Rob's  pardon  for  treading  on  his  toes, 
and  Rob,  who  had  not  felt  it,  saw  that  this  was  his 
man.  He  introduced  him  to  the  authoress  as  an- 
other admirer,  and  the  round-faced  youth  seemed 
such  a  likely  subject  for  her  next  work  that  Rob 
moved  off  comfortably. 

A  shock  awaited  him  when  he  met  Dick,  who 
had  been  passing  the  time  by  taking  male  guests 
aside  and  asking  them  in  an  impressive  voice  what 
they  thought  of  his  great  book,  "  Lives  of  Eminent 
Washerwomen,"  which  they  had  no  doubt  read. 

"Who  is  the  man  so  like  Dowton  ?  "  he  repeated, 
in  answer  to  Rob's  question.  "  Why,  it  is  Dowton." 

210 


THE   STUPID   SEX 

Then  Dick  looked  vexed.  He  remembered  that 
Rob  had  been  at  Dome  Castle  on  the  previous 
Christmas  Eve. 

"  Look  here,  Angus,"  he  said,  bluntly,  "  this  is  a 
matter  I  hate  to  talk  about.  The  fact  is,  however, 
that  this  is  the  real  Sir  Clement.  The  fellow  you 
met  was  an  impostor,  who  came  from  no  one 
knows  where.  Unfortunately,  he  has  returned  to 
the  same  place." 

Dick  bit  his  lip  while  Rob  digested  this. 

"  But  if  you  know  the  real  Dowton,"  Rob  asked, 
"  how  were  you  deceived  *?  " 

"  Well,  it  was  my  father  who  was  deceived 
rather  than  myself,  but  we  did  not  know  the  real 
baronet  then.  The  other  fellow,  if  you  must  know, 
traded  on  his  likeness  to  Dowton,  who  is  in  the 
country  now  for  the  first  time  for  many  years. 
Whoever  the  impostor  is,  he  is  a  humourist  in  his 
way,  for  when  he  left  the  Castle  in  January  he 
asked  my  father  to  call  on  him  when  he  came  to 
town.  The  fellow  must  have  known  that  Dowton 
was  coming  home  about  that  time ;  at  all  events, 
my  father,  who  was  in  London  shortly  afterwards, 
looked  up  his  friend  the  baronet,  as  he  thought,  at 
his  club,  and  found  that  he  had  never  set  eyes  on 
him  before.  It  would  make  a  delicious  article  if 
it  had  not  happened  in  one's  own  family." 

"  The  real  Sir  Clement  seems  great  friends  with 
Miss  Abin^er."  Rob  could  not  help  saying. 

21  1 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  "  we  struck  up  an  intimacy 
with  him  over  the  affair,  and  stranger  things  have 
happened  than  that  he  and  Mary  —  " 

He  stopped. 

"  My  father,  I  beheve,  would  hke  it,"  he  added, 
carelessly,  but  Rob  had  turned  away.  Dick  went 
after  him. 

"  I  have  told  you  this,"  he  said,  "  because,  as  you 
knew  the  other  man,  it  had  to  be  done,  but  we 
don't  like  it  spoken  of" 

"  I  shall  not  speak  of  it,"  said  miserable  Rob. 

He  would  have  liked  to  be  tearing  through 
London  again,  but  as  that  was  not  possible  he 
sought  a  solitary  seat  by  the  door.  Before  he 
reached  it  his  mood  changed.  What  was  Sir 
Clement  Dowton,  after  all,  that  he  should  be 
frightened  at  him*?  He  was  merely  a  baronet. 
An  impostor  who  could  never  have  passed  for  a 
journalist  had  succeeded  in  passing  for  Dowton. 
Journalism  was  the  noblest  of  all  professions,  and 
Rob  was  there  representing  it.  The  seat  of  honour 
at  the  Symphonia  was  next  to  Mary  Abinger,  and 
the  baronet  had  held  it  too  long  already.  Instead 
of  sulking,  Rob  approached  the  throne  like  one 
who  had  a  right  to  be  there.  Sir  Clement  had 
risen  for  a  moment  to  put  down  Mary's  cup,  and 
when  he  returned  Rob  was  in  his  chair,  with  no 
immediate  intention  of  getting  out  of  it.  The 
baronet  frowned,  which  made   Rob  say  quite  a 

212 


THE   STUPID   SEX 

number  of  bright  things  to  Miss  Abinger.  When 
two  men  are  in  love  with  the  same  young  lady 
one  of  them  must  be  worsted,  Rob  saw  that  it 
was  better  to  be  the  other  one. 

The  frightfully  Bohemian  people  at  the  Sym- 
phonia.  remained  there  even  later  than  eleven 
o'clock,  but  the  rooms  thinned  before  then,  and 
Dick's  party  were  ready  to  go  by  half-past  ten. 
Rob  was  now  very  sharp.  It  did  not  escape  his 
notice  that  the  gentlemen  were  bringing  the  ladies' 
cloaks,  and  he  calmly  made  up  his  mind  to  help 
Mary  Abinger  on  with  hers.  To  his  annoyance. 
Sir  Clement  was  too  quick  for  him.  The  baronet 
was  in  the  midst  of  them,  with  the  three  ladies' 
cloaks,  just  as  Rob  wondered  where  he  would 
have  to  go  to  find  them.  Nell's  cloak  Sir  Clement 
handed  to  Dick,  but  he  kept  Mary's  on  his  arm 
while  he  assisted  Mrs.  Meredith  into  hers.  It  was 
a  critical  moment.  All  would  be  over  in  five 
seconds. 

"  Allow  me,"  said  Rob. 

With  apparent  coolness  he  took  Mary's  cloak 
from  the  baronet's  arms.  He  had  not  been  used  to 
saying  "  allow  me,"  and  his  face  was  white,  but  he 
was  determined  to  go  on  with  this  thing. 

"  Take  my  arm,"  he  said  to  Mary,  as  they  joined 
the  crowd  that  swayed  toward  the  door.  After  he 
said  it  he  saw  that  he  had  spoken  with  an  air  of 
proprietorship,  but  he  was  not  sorry.    Mary  did  it. 

213 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

It  took  them  some  time  to  reach  their  cab,  and 
on  the  way  Mary  asked  Rob  a  question. 

"I  gave  you  something  once,"  she  said,  "but  I 
suppose  you  lost  it  long  ago." 

Rob  reddened,  for  he  had  been  sadly  puzzled  to 
know  what  had  become  of  his  Christmas  card. 

"  I  have  it  still,"  he  answered  at  last. 

"  Oh,"  said  Mary,  coldly ;  and  at  once  Rob 
felt  a  chill  pass  through  him.  It  was  true,  after 
all,  that  Miss  Abinger  could  be  an  icicle  on 
occasion. 

Rob,  having  told  a  lie,  deserved  no  mercy,  and 
got  none.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  Mary  might  have 
thawed  a  little  had  she  known  that  it  was  only  a  lie. 
She  thought  that  Rob  was  not  aware  of  his  loss. 
A  man  taking  fickleness  as  the  comparative  aegree 
of  an  untruth  is  perhaps  only  what  may  be  looked 
for,  but  one  does  not  expect  it  from  a  woman. 
Probably  the  lights  had  blinded  Mary. 

Rob  had  still  an  opportunity  of  righting  himself, 
but  he  did  not  take  it. 

"  Then  you  did  mean  the  card  for  me,"  he  said, 
in  foolish  exultation ;  "when  I  found  it  on  the  walk 
I  was  not  certain  that  you  had  not  merely  dropped 
it  by  accident." 

Alas  I  for  the  fatuity  of  man.  Mary  looked  up 
in  icy  surprise. 

"  What  card  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  about." 

214 


THE   STUPID   SEX 

"•  Don't  you  remember  *?  "  asked  Rob,  very  much 
requiring  to  be  sharpened  again. 

He  looked  so  woebegone,  that  Mary  nearly  had 
pity  on  him.  She  knew,  however,  that,  if  it  was 
not  for  her  sex,  men  would  never  learn  anything. 

"No,"  she  replied,  and  turned  to  talk  to  Sir 
Clement. 

Rob  walked  home  from  the  Langham  that  night 
with  Dick,  and,  when  he  was  not  thinking  of  the- 
two  Sir  Clements,  he  was  telling  himself  that  he  had 
climbed  his  hill  valiantly,  only  to  topple  over  when 
he  neared  the  top.  Before  he  went  to  bed  he  had  :m 
article  to  finish  for  the  IV/re,  and,  while  he  wrote, 
he  pondered  over  the  ways  of  woman ;  which,  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  is  a  droll  thing  to  do. 

Mr.  Meredith  had  noticed  Rob's  dejection  at 
the  hotel,  and  remarked  to  Nell's  mother  that  lu 
thought  Mary  was  very  stiff  to  Angus.  Mrs. 
Meredith  looked  sadly  at  her  husband  in  reply. 

"  You  think  so,"  she  said,  mournfully  shaking 
her  head  at  him,  "  and  so  does  Richard  Abinger. 
Mr.  Angus  is  as  blind  as  the  rest  of  you." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Mr.  Meredith,  with 
much  curiosity. 

"Nor  do  they,"  replied  his  wife, contemptuously, 
"  there  are  no  men  so  stupid,  I  think,  as  the  clever 

ones." 

She  could  have  preached  a  sermon  that  night, 
with  the  stupid  sex  for  her  text. 

215 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  HOUSEBOAT,  "TAWNY   OWL" 

"Mr.  Angus,  what  is  an  egotist?" 
"  Don't  you  know,  Miss  Meredith  ?  " 
"  Well,  I  know  in  a  general  sort  of  way,  but  not 
precisely." 

"An  egotist  is  a  person  who  —  but  why  do  you 
want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Because  just  now  Mr.  Abinger  asked  me  what 
I  was  thinking  of,  and  when  I  said  of  nothing  he 
called  me  an  egotist." 

"  Ah  I  that  kind  of  egotist  is  one  whose  thoughts 
are  too  deep  for  utterance." 

It  was  twilight.  Rob  stood  on  the  deck  of  the 
houseboat,  I'awny  Owl^  looking  down  at  Nell,  who 
sat  in  the  stern,  her  mother  beside  her,  amid  a 
blaze  of  Chinese  lanterns.  Dick  lay  near  them, 
prone,  as  he  had  fallen  from  a  hammock  whose  one 
flaw  was  that  it  gave  way  when  any  one  got  into 
it.  Mr.  Meredith,  looking  out  from  one  of  the 
saloon  windows  across  the  black  water  that  was 
now  streaked  with  glistening  silver,  wondered 
whether  he  was  enjoying  himself,  and  Mary,  in  a 

216 


THE   HOUSEBOAT,  "TAWNY    OWL" 

little  blue  nautical  jacket  with  a  cap  to  match,  lay 
back  in  a  camp-chair  on  deck  with  a  silent  banjo 
in  her  hands.  Rob  was  brazening  it  out  in  flannels, 
and  had  been  at  such  pains  to  select  colours  to  suit 
him  that  the  effect  was  atrocious.  He  had  spent 
several  afternoons  at  Molesey  during  the  three 
weeks  the  'T'azvny  Owl  had  lain  there,  but  this  time 
he  was  to  remain  overnight  at  the  Island  Hotel. 

The  I'aw/ij  Owl  was  part  of  the  hoop  of  house- 
boats that  almost  girded  Tagg's  Island,  and  lights 
sailed  through  the  trees,  telling  of  launches  moving 
to  their  moorings  near  the  ferry.  Now  and  again 
there  was  the  echo  of  music  from  a  distant  house- 
boat. For  a  moment  the  water  was  loquacious  as 
dingeys  or  punts  shot  past.  Canadian  canoes,  the 
ghosts  that  haunt  the  Thames  by  night,  lifted  their 
heads  out  of  the  river,  gaped,  and  were  gone.  An 
osier  wand  dipped  into  the  water  under  a  weight 
of  swallows,  all  going  to  bed  together.  The 
boy  on  the  next  houseboat  kissed  his  hand  to  a 
broom  on  board  the  I'awny  Owl,  taking  it  for  Mrs. 
Meredith's  servant,  and  then  retired  to  his  kitchen 
smiling.  From  the  boathouse  across  the  river 
came  the  monotonous  tap  of  a  hammer.  A  reed- 
warbler  rushed  through  his  song.  There  was  a 
soft  splashing  along  the  bank. 

"  There  was  once  a  literary  character,"  Dick  mur- 
mured, "who  said  that  to  think  of  nothing  was  an 
impossibility,  but  he  lived  before  the  days  of  house- 

217 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

boats.  I  came  here  a  week  ago  to  do  some  high 
thinking,  and  I  believe  I  have  only  managed  four 
thoughts  —  first,  that  the  cow  on  the  island  is  an 
irate  cow;  second,  that  in  summer  the  sun  shines 
brightly ;  third,  that  the  trouble  of  lighting  a  cigar 
is  almost  as  great  as  the  pleasure  of  smoking  it ; 
and  fourth,  that  swans  —  the  fourth  thought  re- 
ferred to  swans,  but  it  has  slipped  my  memory." 

He  yawned  like  a  man  glad  to  get  to  the  end  of 
his  sentence,  or  sorry  that  he  had  begun  it. 

"  But  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  "  that  the 
reason  you  walk  round  and  round  the  island  by 
yourself  so  frequently  is  because  you  can  think  out 
articles  on  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Dick  answered,  "  the  island  looks  like  a 
capital  place  to  think  on,  and  I  always  start  off  on 
my  round  meaning  to  think  hard.  After  that  all 
is  a  blank  till  I  am  back  at  the  I'awm'  Owl,  when 
I  remember  that  I  have  forgotten  to  think." 

"  Will  ought  to  enjoy  this,"  remarked  Nell. 

"  That  is  my  brother,  Mr.  Angus,"  Mary  said 
to  Rob ;  "  he  is  to  spend  part  of  his  holidays  here." 

"  I  remember  him,"  Rob  answered,  smiling. 
Mary  blushed,  however,  remembering  that  the 
last  time  Will  and  Greybrooke  met  Rob  there  had 
been  a  little  scene. 

"  He  will  enjoy  the  fishing,"  said  Dick.  "  I 
have  only  fished  myself  three  or  four  times,  and  I 
am  confident  I  hooked  a  minnow  yesterday." 

218 


THE   HOUSEBOAT,  'TAWNY   OWL" 

"  I  saw  a  little  boy,"  Nell  said, "  fishing  from 
the  island  to-day,  and  his  mother  had  strapped  him 
to  a  tree  in  case  he  might  fall  in." 

"  When  I  saw  your  young  brother  at  Silchester," 
Rob  said  to  Mary,  "  he  had  a  schoolmate  with  him," 

"  Ah,  yes,"  Dick  said ;  "  that  was  the  man  who 
wanted  to  horsewhip  you,  you  know." 

"  I  thought  he  and  Miss  Meredith  were  great 
friends,"  Rob  retorted.  He  sometimes  wondered 
how  much  Dick  cared  for  Nell. 

"  It  was  only  the  young  gentleman's  good- 
nature," Abinger  explained,  while  Nell  drew  her- 
self up  indignantly  ;  "  he  found  that  he  had  to  give 
up  either  Nell  or  a  cricket  match,  and  so  Nell  was 
reluctantly  dropped." 

"  That  was  not  how  you  spoke,"  Nell  said  to 
Dick  in  a  low  voice,  "  when  I  told  you  all  about 
him,  poor  boy,  in  your  chambers." 

"  You  promised  to  be  a  sister  to  him,  I  think," 
remarked  Abinger.  "  Ah,  Nell,  it  is  not  a  safe 
plan  that.     How  many  brothers  have  you  now  ?  " 

Dick  held  up  his  hand  for  Mary's  banjo,  and, 
setting  himself  comfortably  in  a  corner,  twanged 
and  sang,  while  the  lanterns  caught  myriads  of 
flies,  and  the  bats  came  and  went. 

When  Coelebs  was  a  bolder  blade, 

And  ladies  fair  were  coy. 
His  search  was  for  a  wife,  he  said. 

The  time  I  was  a  boy. 
219 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

But  Coclebs  now  has  slothful  grown 
(I  learn  this  from  her  mother). 

Instead  of  making  her  his  own. 
He  asks  to  be  her  brother. 

Last  night  I  saw  her  smooth  his  brow. 

He  bent  his  hea-d  and  kissed  her ; 
They  understand  each  other  now. 

She's  going  to  be  his  sister. 
Some  say  he  r'^ally  docs  propose. 

And  means  to  gain  or  lose  all, 
And  that  the  new  arrangement  goes. 

To  soften  her  refusal. 

H  'talks  so  wild  of  broken  hearty 

Of  futures  that  she'll  mar. 
He  says  on  Tuesday  he  departs 

For  Cork  or  Zanzibar. 
His  death  he  places  at  her  door. 

Yet  says  he  won't  resent  it ; 
Ah,  well,  he  talked  that  way  before. 

And  very  seldom  meant  it. 

Engagements  now  are  curicuis  things, 

"A  kind  of understandin'," 
Although  they  do  not  run  to  rings. 

They're  good  to  keep  your  hand  in. 
No  rivals  now,  Tom,  Dick  and  Hal, 

They  all  love  one  another. 
For  she's  a  sister  to  them  all, 

And  every  one's  her  brother. 

In  former  days  when  men  proposed, 

And  ladies  said  them  No, 
The  laws  that  rourtesy  imposed 

Made  lovers  pack  and  go. 
220 


THE   HOUSEBOAT,  "TAWNY   OWL" 

But  now  that  they  may  brothers  be. 

So  changed  the  way  of  men  is. 
That,  having  kissed,  the  swain  and  she 

Resume  their  game  at  tennis. 

Ah,  NelJy  Meredith,  you  may 

Be  wiser  than  your  mother. 
But  she  knew  what  to  do  when  they 

Proposed  to  be  her  brother. 
Of  these  relations  best  have  none. 

They'll  only  you  encumber; 
Of  wives  a  man  may  have  but  one, 

Of  sisters  any  number. 

Dick  disappeared  into  the  kitchen  with  Mrs. 
Meredith,  to  show  her  how  they  make  a  salad  at 
the  Wigwam,  and  Nell  and  her  father  went  a  fish- 
ing from  a  bedroom  window.  The  night  was  so 
silent  now  that  Rob  and  Mary  seemed  to  have  it 
to  themselves.  A  canoe  in  a  blaze  of  coloured 
light  drifted  past  without  a  sound.  The  grass  on 
the  bank  parted,  and  water-rats  peeped  out.  All 
at  once  Mary  had  nothing  to  say,  and  Rob  shook 
on  his  stool.     The  moon  was  out  looking  at  them. 

"Oh,"  Mary  cried,  as  something  dipped  sud- 
denly in  the  water  near  them. 

"  It  was  only  a  dabchick,"  Rob  guessed,  looking 
over  the  rail. 

"  What  is  a  dabchick  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

Rob  did  not  tell  her.  She  had  not  the  least 
desire  to  know. 

221 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

In  the  river,  on  the  opposite  side  from  where  the 
T'awny  Qzvl  lay,  a  stream  drowns  itself.  They  had 
not  known  of  its  existence  before,  but  it  was  roar- 
ing hke  a  lasher  to  them  now.  Mary  shuddered 
slightly,  turning  her  face  to  the  island,  and  Rob 
took  a  great  breath  as  he  looked  at  her.  His  hand 
held  her  brown  sunshade  that  was  ribbed  with 
velvet,  the  sunshade  with  the  preposterous  handle 
that  Mary  held  upside  down.  Other  ladies  carried 
their  sunshades  so,  and  Rob  resented  it.  Her  back 
was  toward  him,  and  he  sat  still,  gazing  at  the 
loose  blue  jacket  that  only  reached  her  waist.  It 
was  such  a  slender  waist  that  Rob  trembled  for  it. 

The  trees  that  hung  over  the  houseboat  were 
black,  but  the  moon  made  a  fairyland  of  the  sward 
beyond.  Mary  could  only  see  the  island  between 
heavy  branches,  but  she  looked  straight  before  her 
until  tears  dimmed  her  eyes.  Who  would  dare  to 
seek  the  thoughts  of  a  girl  at  such  a  moment  *?  Rob 
moved  nearer  her.  Her  blue  cap  was  tilted  back, 
her  chin  rested  on  the  rail.  All  that  was  good  in 
him  was  astir  when  she  turned  and  read  his  fice. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  down  now,"  Mary  said,  be- 
coming less  pale  as  she  spoke.  Rob's  eyes  fol- 
lowed her  as  she  moved  toward  the  ladder. 

"  Not  yet,"  he  called  after  her,  and  could  say  no 
more.  It  was  always  so  when  they  were  alone ; 
and  he  made  himself  suffer  for  it  afterwards. 

Mary  stood  irresolutely  at  the  top  of  the  ladder. 

222 


THE   HOUSEBOAT,  "TAWNY   OWL" 

She  would  not  turn  back,  but  she  did  not  descend. 
Mr.  Meredith  was  fishing  lazily  from  the  lower 
deck,  and  there  was  a  murmur  of  voices  in  the 
saloon.  On  the  road  running  parallel  to  the  river 
traps  and  men  were  shadows  creeping  along  to 
Hampton.  Lights  were  going  out  there.  Mary 
looked  up  the  stretch  of  water  and  sighed. 

"  Was  there  ever  so  beautiful  a  night  ?  "  she 
said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rob,  at  her  elbow,  "  once  at  Dome 
Castle,  the  night  I  saw  you  first." 

"  I  don't  remember,"  said  Mary  hastily,  but 
without  going  down  the  ladder. 

"  I  might  never  have  met  you,"  Rob  continued, 
grimly,  "  if  some  man  in  Silchester  had  not  mur- 
dered his  wife." 

Mary  started  and  looked  up  at  him.  Until  she 
ceased  to  look  he  could  not  go  on. 

"  The  murder,"  he  explained,  "  was  of  more  im- 
portance than  Colonel  Abinger's  dinner,  and  so  I 
was  sent  to  the  castle.  It  is  rather  curious  to  trace 
these  things  back  a  step.  The  woman  enraged  her 
husband  into  striking  her,  because  she  had  not  pre- 
pared his  supper.  Instead  of  doing  that  she  had 
been  gossiping  with  a  neighbour,  who  would  not 
have  had  time  for  gossip  had  she  not  been  laid  up 
with  a  sprained  ankle.  It  came  out  in  the  evi- 
dence that  this  woman  had  hurt  herself  by  slipping 
on  a  marble,  so  that  I  might  never  have  seen  you 

12'\ 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

had  not  two  boys,  whom  neither  of  us  ever  heard 
of,  challenged  each  other  to  a  game  at  marbles." 

"  It  was  stranger  that  we  should  meet  again  in 
London,"  Mary  said. 

"  No,"  Rob  answered,  "  the  way  we  met  was 
strange,  but  I  was  expecting  you." 

Mary  pondered  how  she  should  take  this,  and 
then  pretended  not  to  hear  it. 

"  Was  it  not  rather  '  The  Scorn  of  Scorns '  that 
made  us  know  each  other  *?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  knew  you  after  I  read  it  a  second  time,"  he 
said ;  "  I  have  got  that  copy  of  it  still." 

"  You  said  you  had  the  card." 

"  I  have  never  been  able  to  understand,"  Rob 
answered,  "  how  I  lost  that  card.  But,"  he  added, 
sharply,  "  how  do  you  know  that  I  lost  it  *?  " 

Mary  glanced  up  again. 

"  I  hate  being  asked  questions,  Mr.  Angus,"  she 
said,  sweetly. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  Rob  went  on,  "  saying  in 
that  book  that  men  were  not  to  be  trusted  until 
they  reached  their  second  childhood  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Mary  replied,  laughing,  "  that 
they  are  to  be  trusted  even  then." 

*'  I  should  think,"  said  Rob,  rather  anxiously, 
"  that  a  woman  might  as  well  marry  a  man  in  his 
first  childhood  as  in  his  second.  Surely  the  golden 
mean  — "  Rob  paused.  He  was  just  twenty- 
seven. 

224 


THE   HOUSEBOAT,  "TAWNY   OWL" 

"We  should  strike  the  golden  mean,  you  think '^*' 
asked  Mary,  demurely.  "But  you  see  it  is  of 
such  short  duration," 

After  that  there  was  such  a  long  pause  that 
Mary  could  easily  have  gone  down  the  ladder  had 
she  wanted  to  do  so. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  and  Dick  are  such  friends," 
she  said  at  last. 

"  Why?"  asked  Rob,  quickly. 

*'  Oh,  well,"  said  Mary. 

*'  He  has  been  the  best  friend  I  have  ever  made," 
Rob  contmued,  warmly,  "  though  he  says  our  only 
point  in  common  is  a  hatred  of  rice  pudding." 

He  coid  me,"  said  Mary,  "  that  you  write  on 
politics  in  the  Wire" 

"  I  do  a  little  now,  but  I  have  never  met  any 
one  yet  who  admitted  that  he  had  read  my  ar- 
ticles.   Even  your  brother  won't  go  so  far  as  that." 

"  I  have  read  several  of  them,"  said  Mary. 

"  Have  you  *?  "  Rob  exclaimed,  like  a  big  boy. 

"  Yes,"  Mary  answered  severely  •  "  but  I  don't 
agree  with  them.  I  am  a  Conservative,  you 
know." 

She  pursed  up  her  mouth  complacently  as  she 
spoke,  and  Rob  fell  back  a  step  to  prevent  his 
going  a  steo  closer.  He  could  hear  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's line  tearing  the  water.  The  boy  on  the  next 
houseboat  was  baling  the  dingey,  and  whistling  a 
doleful  ditty  between  each  cantul. 

225 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  jThere  will  never  be  such  a  night  again,"  Rob 
said,  in  a  melancholy  voice.  Then  he  waited  lor 
Mary  to  ask  why,  when  he  would  have  told  her, 
but  she  did  not  ask. 

"At  least,  not  to  me,"  he  continued,  after  a 
pause,  "  for  I  am  not  likely  to  be  here  again.  But 
there  may  be  many  such  nights  to  you." 

Mc^ry  was  unbuttoning  her  gloves  and  then  but- 
toning them  again.  There  is  something  uncanny 
about  a  woman  who  has  a  chance  to  speak  and 
does  not  take  it. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear,"  said  Rob,  "  that  my  being 
away  will  make  no  difference  to  you." 

A  light  was  running  along  the  road  to  Hampton 
Court,  and  Mary  watched  it. 

"  Are  you  glad  ?  "  asked  Rob,  desperately. 

"  You  said  I  was,"  answered  Mary,  without  turn- 
ing her  head.  Dick  was  thrumming  the  banjo 
below.  Her  hand  touched  a  camp-chair,  and  Rob 
put  his  over  it.  He  would  have  liked  to  stand 
like  that  and  talk  about  things  in  general  now. 

"  Mary,"  said  Rob. 

The  boy  ceased  to  whistle.  All  nature  in  that 
quarter  was  paralysed,  except  the  tumble  of  water 
across  the  river.  Mary  withdrew  her  hand,  but 
said  nothing.  Rob  held  his  breath.  He  had  not 
even  the  excuse  of  having  spoken  impulsively,  for 
he  had  been  meditating  saying  it  for  weeks. 

By  and  by  the  world  began  to  move  again.    The 

226 


THE   HOUSEBOAT,    'TAWNY   OWL' 

boy  whistled.  A  swallow  tried  another  twig.  A 
moorhen  splashed  in  the  river.  They  had  thought 
it  over,  and  meant  to  let  it  pass. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  "  Rob  asked. 

Mary  nodded  her  head,  but  did  not  speak. 
Suddenly  Rob  started. 

"  You  are  crying,"  he  said. 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  said  Mary,  looking  up  now. 

There  was  a  strange  light  in  her  face  that  made 
Rob  shake.  He  was  so  near  her  that  his  hands 
touched  her  jacket.  At  that  moment  there  was 
a  sound  of  feet  on  the  plank  that  communicated 
between  the  ^awny  Owl  and  the  island,  and  Dick 
called  out  — 

"  You  people  up  there,  are  you  coming  once 
around  the  island  before  you  have  something  to 
eat'?" 

Rob  muttered  a  reply  that  Dick  fortunately  did 
not  catch,  but  Mary  answered  "  Yes,"  and  they 
descended  the  ladder. 

"  You  had  better  put  a  shawl  over  your  shoul- 
ders," said  Rob,  in  rather  a  lordly  tone. 

"  No,"  Mary  answered,  thrusting  away  the  shawl 
he  produced  from  the  saloon ;  "  a  wrap  on  a  night 
like  this  would  be  absurd." 

Something  caught  in  her  throat  at  that  moment, 
and  she  coughed.     Rob  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"  You  had  better,"  he  said,  putting  tlie  shawl 
over  her  shoulders. 

227 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  No,"  said  Mary,  flinging  it  off. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rob,  putting  it  on  again. 

Mary  stamped  her  foot. 

"  How  dare  you,  Mr.  Angus  *?  "  she  exclaimed. 

Rob's  chest  heaved. 

"  You  must  do  as  you  are  told,"  he  said. 

Mary  looked  at  him  while  he  looked  at  her,  but 
she  did  not  take  off  the  shawl  again,  and  that  was 
the  great  moment  of  Rob's  life. 

The  others  had  gone  on  before.  Although  it 
was  a  white  night  the  plank  was  dark  in  shadow, 
and  as  she  stepped  off  it  she  slipped  back.  Rob's 
arm  went  round  her  for  a  moment.  They  walked 
round  the  island  together  behind  the  others,  but 
neither  uttered  a  word.  Rob  was  afraid  even  to 
look  at  her,  so  he  did  not  see  that  Mary  looked 
once  or  twice  at  him. 

Long  after  he  was  supposed  to  be  in  the  hotel 
Rob  was  still  walking  round  the  island,  with  no 
one  to  see  him  but  the  cow.  All  the  Chinese 
lanterns  were  out  now,  but  red  window  blinds 
shone  warm  in  several  houseboats,  and  a  terrier 
barked  at  his  footsteps.  The  grass  was  silver- 
tipped,  as  in  an  enchanted  island,  and  the  im- 
patient fairies  might  only  have  been  waiting  till 
he  was  gone.  He  was  wondering  if  she  was  of- 
fended. While  he  paced  the  island  she  might  be 
vowing  never  to  look  at  him  again,  but  perhaps  she 
was  only  thinking  that  he  was  very  much  improved. 

228 


THE   HOUSEBOAT,  "TAWNY   OWL' 

At  last  Rob  wandered  to  the  hotel,  and  reaching 
his  bedroom  sat  down  on  a  chair  to  think  it  out 
again  by  candle  light.  He  rose  and  opened  the 
window.  There  was  a  notice  over  the  mantel- 
piece announcing  that  smoking  was  not  allowed  in 
the  bedrooms,  and  having  read  it  thoughtfully  he 
filled  his  pipe.  A  piece  of  crumpled  paper  lay 
beneath  the  dressing-table,  and  he  lifted  it  up  to 
make  a  spill  of  it.  It  was  part  of  an  envelope, 
and  it  floated  out  of  Rob's  hand  as  he  read  the  ad- 
dress in  Mary  Abinger's  handwriting,  "  Sir  Clement 
Dowton,  Ishnd  Hotel." 


229 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART 

A  PUNT  and  a  rowing-boat  were  racing  lazily 
toward  Sunbury  on  a  day  so  bright  that  you  might 
have  passed  women  with  their  hair  in  long  curls 
and  forgiven  them. 

"  I  say,  Dick,"  said  one  of  the  scullers,  "  are  they 
engaged  ?  " 

Will  was  the  speaker,  and  in  asking  the  question 
he  caught  a  crab.  Mary,  with  her  yellow  sleeves 
turned  up  at  the  wrist,  a  great  straw  hat  on  her 
head,  ran  gaily  after  her  pole,  and  the  punt  jerked 
past.  If  there  are  any  plain  girls  let  them  take  to 
punting  and  be  beautiful. 

Dick,  who  was  paddling  rather  than  pulling 
stroke,  turned  round  on  his  young  brother  sharply. 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked,  speaking 
low,  so  that  the  other  occupants  of  the  boat  should 
not  hear  him,  "  Mary  and  Dowton?" 

"  No,"  said  Will,  "  Mary  and  Angus.  I  wonder 
what  they  see  in  her." 

They  were  bound  for  a  picnicking  resort  up 
the  river ;  Mrs.  Meredith,  Mary,  and  Sir  Clement 

230 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART 

in  the  punt,  and  the  others  in  the  boat.  If  Rob 
was  engaged  he  took  it  gloomily.  He  sat  in  the 
stern  with  Mr.  Meredith,  while  Nell  hid  herself 
away  beneath  a  many-coloured  umbrella  in  the 
prow;  and  when  he  steered  the  boat  into  a  gon- 
dola, he  only  said  vacantly  to  its  occupants,  "  It  is 
nothing  at  all,"  as  if  they  had  run  into  him.  Nell's 
father  said  something  about  not  liking  the  appear- 
ance of  the  sky,  and  Rob  looked  at  him  earnestly 
for  such  a  length  of  time  before  replying  that  Mr. 
Meredith  was  taken  aback.  At  times  the  punt 
came  alongside,  and  Mary  addressed  every  one  in 
the  boat  except  Rob.  The  only  person  in  the 
punt  whom  Rob  never  looked  at  was  Mary. 
Dick  watched  them  uneasily,  and  noticed  that 
once,  when  Mary  nearly  followed  her  pole  into  the 
water,  Rob,  who  seemed  to  be  looking  in  the  op- 
posite direction,  was  the  first  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened. Then  Dick  pulled  so  savagely  that  he 
turned  the  boat  round. 

That  morning  at  breakfast  in  his  chambers  Rob 
had  no  thought  of  spending  the  day  on  the  river. 
He  had  to  be  at  the  Wire  office  at  ten  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  and  during  the  day  he  meant  to  finish 
one  of  the  many  articles  which  he  still  wrote  for 
other  journals  that  would  seldom  take  them.  The 
knowledge  that  Sir  Clement  Dowton  had  been  to 
Molesey  disquieted  him,  chiefiy  because  Mary 
Abinger  had  said  nothing  about  it.     Having  given 

231 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

liimself  fifty  reasons  for  her  reticence,  he  pushed 
them  from  him,  and  vowed  wearily  that  he  would 
go  to  the  houseboat  no  more.  Then  Dick  walked 
in  to  suggest  that  they  might  run  down  for  an  hour 
or  two  to  Molesey,  and  Rob  agreed  at  once.  He 
shaped  out  in  the  train  a  subtle  question  about  Sir 
Clement  that  he  intended  asking  Mary,  but  on 
reaching  the  plank  he  saw  her  feeding  the  swans, 
with  the  baronet  by  her  side.  Rob  felt  like  a 
conjurer  whose  trick  has  not  worked  properly. 
Giving  himself  just  half  a  minute  to  reflect  that  it 
was  all  over,  he  affected  the  coldly  courteous,  and 
smiled  in  a  way  that  was  meant  to  be  heartrending. 
Mary  did  not  mind  that,  but  it  annoyed  her  to  see 
the  band  of  his  necktie  slipping  over  his  collar. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  Sunbury  Regatta,  but  the 
party  from  the  'T'aw?iy  Oivl  twisted  past  the  racers, 
leaving  Dick,  who  wanted  a  newspaper,  behind. 
When  he  rejoined  them  beyond  the  village,  the 
boat  was  towing  the  punt. 

"Why,"  said  Dick,  in  some  astonishment,  to  Rob, 
who  was  rowing  now,  "  I  did  not  know  you  could 
scull  like  that." 

"  I  have  been  practising  a  little,"  answered  Rob. 

"  When  he  came  down  here  the  first  time,"  Mrs. 
Meredith  explained  to  Sir  Clement,  "he  did  not 
know  how  to  hold  an  oar.  I  am  afraid  he  is  one  of 
those  men  who  like  to  be  best  at  eveiything." 

"  He  certainly  knows  how  to  scull  now,"  ad- 

232 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART 

mitted  the  baronet,  beginning  to  think  that  Rob  was 
perhaps  a  dangerous  man.  Sir  Clement  was  a  manly 
gentleman,  but  his  politics  were  that  people  should 
not  climb  out  of  the  station  they  were  born  into. 

"  No,"  Dick  said,  in  answer  to  a  question  from 
Mr.  Meredith,  "  I  could  only  get  a  local  paper. 
The  woman  seemed  surprised  at  my  thinking  she 
would  take  in  the  Scalping  Knife  or  the  IVire^  and 
said,  '  We've  got  a  paper  of  our  own.'  " 

"  Read  out  the  news  to  us,  Richard,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Meredith.     Dick  hesitated. 

"  Here,  Will,"  he  said  to  his  brother,  "  you  got 
that  squeaky  voice  of  yours  specially  to  proclaim 
the  news  from  a  boat  to  a  punt  ten  yards  distant. 
Angus  is  longing  to  pull  us  up  the  river  unaided." 

Will  turned  the  paper  round  and  round. 

"  Here  is  a  funny  thing,"  he  bawled  out,  "-about 
a  stick.  '  A  curious  story,  says  a  London  corre- 
spondent, is  going  the  round  of  the  clubs  to-da} 
about  the  walking-stick  of  a  well-known  member 
of  Parliament,  whose  name  I  am  not  at  liberty  to 
mention.  The  story  has  not,  so  far  as  I  am  aware, 
yet  appeared  in  print,  and  it  conveys  a  lesson  to 
all  persons  who  carry  walking-sticks  with  knobs  for 
handles,  which  generate  a  peculiar  disease  in  the 
palm  of  the  hand.  The  member  of  Parliament 
referred  to,  with  whom  I  am  on  intimate  terms  — ' " 

Rob  looked  at  Dick,  and  they  both  groaned. 

"  My  stick  again,"  murmured  Rob. 

233 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  Read  something  else,"  cried  Dick,  shivering. 

"  Eh,  what  is  wrong  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Meredith. 

"  You  must  know,"  said  Dick,  "  that  the  first 
time  I  met  Angus  he  told  me  imprudently  some 
foolish  story  about  a  stick  that  bred  a  disease  in 
the  owner's  hand,  owing  to  his  pressing  so  heavily 
on  the  ball  it  had  by  way  of  a  handle.  I  touched 
the  story  up  a  little,  and  made  half-a-guinea  out  of 
it.  Since  then  that  note  has  been  turning  up  in  a 
new  dress  in  the  most  unlikely  places.  First  the 
London  correspondents  swooped  down  on  it,  and 
telegraphed  it  all  over  the  country  as  something  that 
had  happened  to  well-known  Cabinet  Ministers. 
It  appeared  in  the  Paris  F/gc?ro  as  a  true  story  about 
Sir  Gladstone,  and  soon  afterwards  it  was  across 
the  channel  as  a  reminiscence  of  Thiers.  Having 
done  another  tour  of  the  provinces  it  was  taken  to 
America  by  a  lecturer,  who  exhibited  the  stick. 
Next  it  travelled  the  Continent,  until  it  was  sent 
home  again  by  Paterfamilias  Abroad,  writing  to 
the  T'/zV/fi,  who  said  that  the  man  who  owned  the 
stick  was  a  well-known  Alpine  guide.  Since  then 
we  have  heard  of  it  fitfully  as  doing  well  in  Mel- 
bourne and  Arkansas.  It  figured  in  the  last  vol- 
ume, or  rather  two  volumes,  of  autobiography 
published,  and  now,  you  see,  it  is  going  the  round 
of  the  clubs  again,  preparatory  to  starting  on  an- 
other tour.  I  wish  you  had  kept  your  stick  to 
yourself,  Angus." 

234 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART 

"  That  story  will  never  die,"  Rob  said,  in  a  tone 
of  conviction.  "  It  will  go  round  and  round  the 
world  till  the  crack  of  doom.  Our  children's 
children  will  tell  it  to  each  other." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  "  and  say  it  happened  to  a 
friend  of  theirs." 

A  field  falls  into  the  river  above  Sunbury,  in 
which  there  is  a  clump  of  trees  of  which  many 
boating  parties  know.  Under  the  shadow  of  these 
Mrs.  Meredith  cast  a  table-cloth  and  pegged  it 
down  with  salt-cellars. ' 

"  As  we  are  rather  in  a  hurry,"  she  said  to  the 
gentlemen,  "  I  should  prefer  you  not  to  help  us." 

Rob  wandered  to  the  river-side  with  Will,  who 
would  have  liked  to  know  whether  he  could  jump 
a  gate  without  putting  his  hands  on  it ;  and  the 
other  men  leant  against  the  trees,  wondering  a 
little,  perhaps,  why  ladies  enjoy  in  the  summer- 
time making  chairs  and  tables  of  the  ground. 

Rob  was  recovering  from  his  scare,  and  made 
friends  with  Mary's  young  brother.  By  particular 
request  he  not  only  leapt  the  gate,  but  lifted  it  off 
its  hinges,  and  this  feat  of  strength  so  impressed 
Will  that  he  would  have  brought  the  whole  party 
down  to  see  it  done.  Will  was  as  fond  of  Mary 
as  a  proper  respect  for  himself  would  allow,  but  he 
thought  she  would  be  a  lucky  girl  if  she  got  a 
fellow  who  could  play  with  a  heavy  gate  like  that. 

Being  a  sharp  boy,  Will  noticed  a  cloud  settle 

235 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

on  Rob's  face,  and  looking  toward  the  clump  of 
trees,  he  observed  that  Mary  and  the  baronet  were 
no  longer  there.  In  the  next  field  two  figures  were 
disappearing,  the  taller,  a  man  in  a  tennis  jacket, 
carrying  a  pail.  Sir  Clement  had  been  sent  for 
water,  and  Mary  had  gone  with  him  to  show  him 
the  spring.  Rob  stared  after  them;  and  if  Will 
could  have  got  hold  of  Mary  he  would  have  shaken 
ner  for  spoiling  everything. 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  meditating  sending  some  one 
to  the  spring  to  show  them  the  way  back,  when 
Sir  Clement  and  Mary  again  came  into  sight. 
They  did  not  seem  to  be  saying  much,  yet  were  so 
engrossed  that  they  zigzagged  toward  the  rest  of 
the  party  like  persons  seeking  their  destination  in  a 
mist.  Just  as  they  reached  the  trees  Mary  looked 
up  so  softly  at  her  companion  that  Rob  turned 
away  in  an  agony. 

"  It  is  a  long  way  to  the  spring,"  were  Mary's 
first  words,  as  if  she  expected  to  be  taken  to  task 
for  their  lengthened  absence. 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  Dick. 

The  baronet  crossed  with  the  pail  to  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith, and  stopped  half-way  like  one  waking  from  a 
dream.  Mrs.  Meredith  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
pail,  and  the  baronet  stammered  with  vexation. 
Simultaneously  the  whole  party  saw  what  was 
wrong,  but  Will  only  was  so  merciless  as  to  put 
the  discovery  into  words. 

236 


MARY   OF   THE   STONY   HEART 

"  Why,"  cried  the  boy,  pausing  to  whistle  in  the 
middle  of  his  sentence,  "  you  have  forgotten  the 
water  I  " 

It  was  true.  The  pail  was  empty.  Sir  Clement 
turned  it  upside  down,  and  made  a  seat  of  it. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Meredith,  try- 
ing to  speak  lightly.  "  I  assure  you  I  thought  I 
had  filled  the  pail  at  the  spring.  It  is  entirely  my 
fault,  for  I  told  Miss  Abinger  I  had  done  so." 

Mary's  face  was  turned  from  the  others,  so  that 
they  could  not  see  how  she  took  the  incident.  It 
gave  them  so  much  to  think  of  that  Will  was  the 
only  one  of  the  whole  party  who  saw  its  ridiculous 
aspect. 

"  Put  it  down  to  sunstroke.  Miss  Meredith,"  the 
baronet  said  to  Nell ;  "  I  shall  never  allow  myself 
to  be  placed  in  a  position  of  trust  again." 

"  Does  that  mean,"  asked  Dick,  "  that  you  ob- 
ject to  being  sent  back  again  to  the  spring  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  forgot,"  said  Sir  Clement.  "  You  may 
depend  on  me  this  time." 

He  seized  the  pail  once  more,  glad  to  get  away 
by  himself  to  some  place  where  he  could  denounce 
his  stupidity  unheard,  but  Mrs.  Meredith  would 
not  let  him  go.  As  for  Mary,  she  was  looking  so 
haughty  now  that  no  one  would  have  dared  lo 
mention  the  pail  again. 

During  the  meal  Dick  felt  compelled  to  talk  so 
much  that  he  was  unusually  dull  company  for  the 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

remainder  of  the  week.  The  others  were  only 
genial  now  and  again.  Sir  Clement  sought  in  vain 
to  gather  from  Mary's  eyes  that  she  had  forgiven 
him  for  makmg  the  rest  ot  the  party  couple  him 
and  her  in  their  thoughts.  Mrs.  Meredith  would 
have  liked  to  take  her  daughter  aside  and  discv^ss 
the  situation,  and  Nell  was  looking  covertly  at  Rob^ 
who,  she  thought,  bore  it  bravely.  Rob  had  lately 
learned  carving  from  a  handbook,  and  was  dissect- 
ing a  fowl,  murmuring  to  himself,  "  Cut  from  a  lob 
along  the  liney^,  taking  care  to  sever  the  wing  at 
the  point  k"  Like  all  the  others,  he  thought  that 
Mary  had  promised  to  be  the  baronet's  wife,  and 
Nell's  heart  palpitated  for  him  when  she  saw  how 
gently  he  passed  Sir  Clement  the  mustard.  Such 
a  load  lay  on  Rob  that  he  felt  suffocated.  Nell 
noticed  indignantly  that  Mary  was  not  even  "nice" 
to  him.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  or  at  least 
for  several  weeks,  Miss  Meredith  was  wroth  with 
Miss  Abinger.  Mary  might  have  been  on  the 
rack,  but  she  went  on  proudly  eating  bread  and 
chicken.  Relieved  of  his  fears,  Dick  raged  inter- 
nally at  Mary  for  treating  Angus  cruelly,  and  Nell, 
who  had  always  dreaded  lest  things  should  not  go 
as  they  had  gone,  sat  sorrowfully  because  she  had 
not  been  disappointed.  They  all  knew  how  much 
they  cared  for  Rob  now,  all  except  Mary  of  the 
stony  heart. 

Sir  Clement  began  to  tell  some  travellers'  tales. 

238 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART 

omitting  many  things  that  were  creditable  to  his 
bravery,  and  Rob  found  himself  listening  with  a 
show  of  interest,  wondering  a  little  at  his  own 
audacity  in  competing  with  such  a  candidate.  By 
and  by  some  members  of  the  little  party  drifted 
away  from  the  others,  and  an  accident  left  Mary 
and  Rob  together.  Mary  was  aimlessly  plucking 
the  berries  from  a  twig  in  her  hand,  and  all  the 
sign  she  gave  that  she  knew  of  Rob's  presence  was 
in  not  raising  her  head.  If  love  is  ever  unselfish 
his  was  at  that  moment.  He  took  a  step  forward, 
and  then  Mary,  starting  back,  looked  round  hur- 
riedly in  the  direction  of  Sir  Clement.  What  Rob 
thought  was  her  meaning  flashed  through  him,  and 
he  stood  still  in  pain. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  think  so  meanly  of  me,"  he 
said,  and  passed  on.  He  did  not  see  Mary's  arms 
rise  involuntarily,  as  if  they  would  call  him  back. 
But  even  then  she  did  not  realize  what  Rob's 
thoughts  were.  A  few  yards  away  Rob,  moving 
blindly,  struck  against  Dick. 

"  Ah,  I  see  Mary  there,"  her  brother  said,  "  I 
want  to  speak  to  her.  Why,  how  white  you  are, 
man !  " 

"  Abinger,"  Rob  answered,  hoarsely,  "  tell  me.  I 
must  know.     Is  she  engaged  to  Dowton  ?  " 

Dick  hesitated.  He  felt  sore  for  Rob,  "  Yes, 
she  is,"  he  replied.  "  You  remember  I  spoke  of 
this  to  you  before."     Then  Dick  moved  on  to  have 

239 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

it  out  with  Mary.     She  was  standing  with  the  twig 
in  her  hand,  just  as  Rob  had  left  her. 

"  Mary,"  said  her  brother,  bluntly,  "  this  is  too 
bad.  I  would  have  expected  it  from  any  one 
sooner  than  from  you." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  *?  "  asked  Mary, 
frigidly. 

"  I  am  talking  about  Angus,  my  friend.  Yes, 
you  may  smile,  but  it  is  not  play  to  him." 

"  What  have  I  done  to  your  friend  ?  "  said  Mary, 
looking  Dick  in  the  face. 

"  You  have  crushed  the  life  for  the  time  being 
out  of  as  fine  a  fellow  as  I  ever  knew.  You  might 
at  least  have  amused  yourself  with  some  one  a  little 
more  experienced  in  the  ways  of  women." 

"  How  dare  you,  Dick  *? "  exclaimed  Mary, 
stamping  her  foot.  All  at  once  Dick  saw  that 
though  she  spoke  bravely  her  lips  were  trembling. 
A  sudden  fear  seized  him. 

"  I  presume  that  you  are  engaged  to  Dowton  ?  " 
he  said,  quickly. 

"  It  is  presumption  certainly,"  replied  Mary. 

"  Why,  what  else  could  any  one  think  after  that 
ridiculous  affair  of  the  water  *?  " 

"  I  shall  never  forgive  him  for  that,"  Mary  said, 
flushing. 

"But  he  —  " 

"  No.     Yes,  he  did,  but  we  are  not  engaged." 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  you  refused  him  ?  " 

240 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART 

"  Yes." 

Dick  thought  it  over,  tapping  the  while  on  a  tree 
trunk  Hke  a  woodpecker. 

"  Why,"  he  asked  at  last. 

Mary  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  said  nothing. 

"  You  seemed  exceedingly  friendly,"  said  Dick, 
"  when  you  returned  here  together." 

"  I  suppose,"  Mary  said,  bitterly,  "that  the 
proper  thing  in  the  circumstances  would  have  been 
to  wound  his  feelings  unnecessarily  as  much  as 
possible  ?  " 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  Dick  said,  kindly;  "of 
course  I  misunderstood  —  but  this  will  be  a  blow 
to  our  father." 

Mary  looked  troubled. 

"  I  could  not  marry  him,  you  know,  Dick,"  she 
faltered. 

"  Certainly  not,"  Dick  said,  "  if  you  don't  care 
sufficiently  for  him ;  and  yet  he  seems  a  man  that 
a  girl  might  care  for." 

"  Oh,  he  is,"  Mary  exclaimed.  "  He  was  so 
manly  and  kind  that  I  wanted  to  be  nice  to  him." 

"  You  have  evidently  made  up  your  mind,  sister 
mine,"  Dick  said,  "  to  die  a  spinster." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  with  a  white  face. 

Suddenly  Dick  took  both  her  hands,  and  looked 
her  in  the  face. 

"  Do  you  care  for  any  other  person,  Mary  *?  "  he 
asked,  sharply. 

241 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Mary  shook  her  head,  but  she  did  not  return  her 
brother's  gaze.  Her  hands  were  trembhng.  She 
tried  to  pull  them  from  him,  but  he  held  her  firmly 
until  she  looked  at  him.  Then  she  drew  up  her 
head  proudly.  Her  hands  ceased  to  shake.  She 
had  become  marble  again. 

Dick  was  not  deceived.  He  dropped  her  hands, 
and  leant  despondently  against  a  tree. 

"  Angus —  "  he  began. 

"  You  must  not,"  Mary  cried ;  and  he  stopped 
abruptly. 

"  It  is  worse  than  I  could  have  feared,"  Dick 
said. 

"  No,  it  is  not,"  said  Mary,  quickly.  "  It  is 
nothing.     I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  It  was  my  fault  bringing  you  together.  I 
should  have  been  more  —  " 

"  No,  it  was  not.  I  met  him  before.  Whom 
are  you  speaking  about  *?  " 

"  Think  of  our  father,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  I  have  !  " 

"  He  is  not  like  you.     How  could  he  dare  —  '* 

"  Dick,  don't." 

Will  bounced  towards  them  with  a  hop,  step, 
and  jump,  and  Mrs.  Meredith  was  signalling  that 
she  wanted  both. 

"  Never  speak  of  this  again,"  Mary  said  in  a 
low  voice  to  Dick  as  they  walked  toward  the 
others. 

242 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART 

"  I  hope  I  shall  never  feel  forced  to  do  so," 
Dick  replied. 

"  You  will  not,"  Mary  said,  in  her  haste.  "  But, 
Dick,"  she  added,  anxiously,  "surely  the  others 
did  not  think  what  you  thought  ?  It  would  be  so 
unpleasant  for  Sir  Clement." 

"  Well,  I  can't  say,"  Dick  answered. 

"  At  all  events,  he  did  not  ?  " 

"  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Dick,  I  mean  Mr.  Angus." 

Dick  bit  his  lip,  and  would  have  replied  angrily ; 
but  perhaps  he  loved  this  sister  of  his  more  than 
any  other  person  in  the  world. 

"Angus,  I  suppose,  noticed  nothing,"  he  an- 
swered, in  order  to  save  Mary  pain,  "  except  that 
you  and  Dowton  seemed  very  good  friends." 

Dick  knew  that  this  was  untrue.  He  did  not 
remember  then  that  the  good-natured  lies  live  for 
ever  like  the  others. 

Evening  came  on  before  they  returned  to  the 
river,  and  Sunbury,  now  blazing  with  fireworks, 
was  shooting  flaming  arrows  at  the  sky.  The 
sweep  of  water  at  the  village  was  one  broad  bridge 
of  boats,  lighted  by  torches  and  Chinese  lanterns 
of  every  hue.  Stars  broke  overhead,  and  fell  in 
showers.  It  was  only  possible  to  creep  ahead  by 
pulling  in  the  oars  and  holding  on  to  the  stream 
of  craft  of  all  kinds  that  moved  along  by  inches. 
Rob,  who  was  punting  Dick  and  Mary,  had  to  lay 

243 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

down  his  pole  and  adopt  the  same  tactics,  but  boat 
and  punt  were  driven  apart,  and  soon  tangled  hope- 
lessly in  different  knots. 

"  It  is  nearly  eight  o'clock,"  Dick  said,  after  he 
had  given  up  looking  for  the  rest  of  the  party. 
"  You  must  not  lose  your  train,  Angus." 

"  I  thought  you  were  to  stay  overnight,  Mr. 
Angus,"  Mary  said. 

Possibly  she  meant  that  had  she  known  he  had 
to  return  to  London,  she  would  have  begun  to  treat 
him  better  earlier  in  the  day,  but  Rob  thought  she 
only  wanted  to  be  polite  for  the  last  time. 

"  I  have  to  be  at  the  IFire"  he  replied,  " before 
ten." 

Mary,  who  had  not  much  patience  with  business, 
and  fancied  that  it  could  always  be  deferred  until 
next  day  if  one  wanted  to  defer  it  very  much,  said, 
"  Oh  I "  and  then  asked,  "  Is  there  not  a  train  that 
would  suit  from  Sunbury  *?  " 

Rob,  blinder  now  than  ever,  thought  that  she 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  him. 

"If  I  could  catch  the  8.15  here,"  he  said,  "I 
would  reach  Waterloo  before  half-past  nine." 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  asked  Dick.  "  There 
is  no  time  to  lose." 

Rob  waited  for  Mary  to  speak,  but  she  said  no- 
thing. 

"  I  had  better  try  it,"  he  said. 

244 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART 

With  difficulty  the  punt  was  brought  near  a 
landing-stage,  and  Rob  jumped  out. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  to  Mary. 

"  Good-night,"  she  replied.  Her  mouth  was 
quivering,  but  how  could  he  know? 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  Dick  exclaimed.  "  We 
might  see  him  off,  Mary  *?  "  Mary  hesitated. 

"  The  others  might  wonder  what  had  become  of 
us,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  we  need  not  attempt  to  look  for  them  in 
this  maze,"  her  brother  answered.  "  We  shall  only 
meet  them  again  at  the  I'awny  Owl." 

The  punt  was  left  in  charge  of  a  boatman,  and 
the  three  set  off  silently  for  the  station,  Mary 
walking  between  the  two  men.  They  might  have 
been  soldiers  guarding  a  deserter. 

What  were  Mary's  feelings  ?  She  did  not  fully 
realize  as  yet  that  Rob  thought  she  was  engaged  to 
Dowton.  She  fancied  that  he  was  sulky  because 
a  circumstance  of  which  he  knew  nothing  made 
her  wish  to  treat  Sir  Clement  with  more  than  usual 
consideration ;  and  now  she  thought  that  Rob, 
having  brought  it  on  himself,  deserved  to  remain 
miserable  until  he  saw  that  it  was  entirely  his  own 
fault.  But  she  only  wanted  to  be  cruel  to  him  now 
to  forgive  him  for  it  afterwards. 

Rob  had  ceased  to  ask  himself  if  it  was  possible 
that  she  had  not  promised  to  be  Dowton's  wife. 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

His  anger  had  passed  away.  Her  tender  heart,  he 
thought,  made  her  wish  to  be  good  to  him  —  for 
the  last  time. 

As  for  Dick,  he  read  the  thoughts  of  both,  and 
Inwardly  called  himself  a  villain  for  not  reading 
them  out  aloud.  Yet  by  his  merely  remaining 
silent  these  two  lovers  would  probably  never  meet 
again,  and  was  not  that  what  would  be  best  for 
Mary? 

Rob  leant  out  of  the  carriage  window  to  say 
good-bye,  and  Dick,  ill  at  ease,  turned  his  back  on 
the  train.  It  had  been  a  hard  day  for  Mary,  and, 
as  Rob  pressed  her  hand  warmly,  a  film  came  over 
her  eyes.  Rob  saw  it,  and  still  he  thought  that  she 
was  only  sorry  for  him.  There  are  far  better  and 
nobler  things  than  loving  a  woman  and  getting  her, 
but  Rob  wanted  Mary  to  know,  by  the  last  look  he 
gave  her,  that  so  long  as  it  meant  her  happiness  his 
misery  was  only  an  unusual  form  of  joy. 


246 


CHAPTER   XV 

COLONEL  ABINGER  TAKES  COMMAND 

One  misty  morning,  about  three  weeks  after  the 
picnic,  Dick  found  himself  a  prisoner  in  the  quad 
rangle  of  Frobisher's  Inn.  He  had  risen  to  catch 
an  early  train,  but  the  gates  were  locked,  and  the 
porter  in  charge  had  vanished  from  his  box.  Dick 
chafed,  and  tore  round  the  Inn  in  search  of  him. 
It  was  barely  six  o'clock ;  which  is  three  hours  after 
midnight  in  London.  The  windows  of  the  Inn 
had  darkened  one  by  one,  until  for  hours  the  black 
building  had  slept  heavily  with  only  one  eye  open. 
Dick  recognized  the  window,  and  saw  Rob's  shadow 
cast  on  its  white  blind.  He  was  standing  there, 
looking  up  a  little  uneasily,  when  the  porter 
tramped  into  sight. 

"  Is  Mr.  Angus  often  as  late  as  this  ?  "  Mary's 
brother  paused  to  ask  at  the  gate. 

"  Why,  sir,"  the  porter  answered,  "  I  am  on  duty 
until  eight  o'clock,  and  as  likely  as  not  he  will  still 
be  sitting  there  when  I  go.  His  shadow  up  there 
has  become  a  sort  of  companion  to  me  in  the  long 
nights,  but  I  sometimes  wonder  what  has  come 
over  the  gentleman  of  late." 

247 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  He  is  busy,  I  suppose  ;  that  is  all,"  Dick  said, 
sharply. 

The  porter  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  like  one 
who  knew  the  ways  of  literary  hands.  He  probably 
wrote  himself 

"Mr.  Angus  only  came  in  from  his  office  at 
three  o'clock,"  he  said,  "and  you  would  think  he 
would  have  had  enough  of  writing  by  that  time. 
You  can  see  his  arm  going  on  the  blind  though 
yet,  and  it  won't  be  out  of  his  common  if  he  has 
another  long  walk  before  he  goes  to  bed." 

"  Does  he  walk  so  late  as  this  ?  "  asked  Dick,  to 
whom  six  in  the  morning  was  an  hour  of  the 
night. 

"  I  never  knew  such  a  gentleman  for  walking," 
replied  the  porter,  "and  when  I  open  the  gate  to 
him  he  is  off  at  six  miles  an  hour.  I  can  hear  the 
echo  of  his  feet  two  or  three  streets  off.  He 
doesn't  look  as  if  he  did  it  for  pleasure  either." 

"  What  else  would  he  do  it  for  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say.  He  looks  as  if  he  wanted  to  run 
away  from  himself" 

Dick  passed  out,  with  a  forced  laugh.  He  knew 
that  since  saying  good-bye  to  Mary  at  Sunbury 
Station,  Rob  had  hardly  dared  to  stop  working  and 
face  the  future.  The  only  rest  Rob  got  was  when 
he  was  striding  along  the  great  thoroughfires 
where  every  one's  life  seemed  to  have  a  purpose 
except  his  own.     But  it  was  only  when  he  asked 

248 


COL.  ABINGER   TAKES   COMMAND 

himself  for  what  end  he  worked  that  he  stopped 
working:.  There  were  moments  when  he  could 
not  believe  that  it  was  all  over.  He  saw  himself 
dead,  and  the  world  going  on  as  usual.  When  he 
read  what  he  had  written  the  night  before,  he  won- 
dered how  people  could  be  interested  in  such  mat- 
ters. The  editor  of  the  /F^rt*  began  to  think  of  this 
stolid  Scotsman  every  time  there  was  a  hitch  in  the 
office,  but  Rob  scarcely  noticed  that  he  was  mak- 
ing progress.  It  could  only  mean  ten  or  twenty 
pounds  more  a  month;  and  what  was  that  to  a 
man  who  had  only  himself  to  think  of,  and  had 
gathered  a  library  on  twenty  shillings  a  week  "?  He 
bought  some  good  cigars,  however. 

Dick,  who  was  longing  for  his  father's  return 
from  the  continent  so  that  the  responsibility  for 
this  miserable  business  might  be  transferred  to  the 
colonel's  shoulders,  frequently  went  into  Rob's 
rooms  to  comfort  him,  but  did  not  know  how  to  do 
it.  They  sat  silently  on  opposite  sides  of  the  very 
hearth-rug  which  Mary  had  once  made  a  remark 
about  —  Rob  had  looked  interestedly  at  the  rug 
after  she  went  away  —  and  each  thought  that,  but 
for  the  other's  sake,  he  would  rather  be  alone. 

What  Dick  felt  most  keenly  was  Rob's  increased 
regard  for  him.  Rob  never  spoke  of  the  Tawny 
Owl  without  an  effort,  but  he  showed  that  he 
appreciated  Dick's  unspoken  sympathy.  If  affairs 
could  have  righted  themselves  in  that  way,  Mary's 

249 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

brother  would  have  preferred  to  be  turned  with 
contumely  out  of  Rob's  rooms,  where,  as  it  was, 
and  despite  his  friendship  for  Rob,  he  seemed  now 
to  be  only  present  on  false  pretences.  Dick  was 
formally  engaged  to  Nell  now,  but  he  tried  at  times 
to  have  no  patience  with  Rob.  Perhaps  he  thought 
a  little  sadly  in  his  own  rooms  that  to  be  engaged 
is  not  all  the  world. 

Dick  had  hoped  that  the  misunderstanding 
which  parted  Rob  and  Mary  at  Sunbury  would 
ke«p  them  apart  without  further  intervention  from 
him.  That  was  not  to  be.  The  next  time  he  went 
to  Molesey  he  was  asked  why  he  had  not  brought 
Mr.  Angus  with  him,  and  though  it  was  not  Mary 
who  asked  the  question,  she  stopped  short  on  her 
way  out  oi  the  saloon  to  hear  his  answer. 

"  He  did  not  seem  to  want  to  come,"  Dick 
replied,  reluctantly. 

"  I  know  why  Mr.  Angus  would  not  come  with 
you,"  Nell  said  to  Dick  when  they  were  alone; 
"  he  thinks  Mary  is  engaged  to  Sir  Clement." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Dick. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Nell ;  "  you  know  we  all 
thought  so  that  day  we  were  up  the  river." 

"  Then  let  him  think  so  if  he  chooses,"  Dick 
said,  harshly.     "  It  is  no  affair  of  his." 

"  Oh,  it  is !  "  Nell  exclaimed.  "  But  I  suppose 
it  would  never  do,  Dick  ?  " 

"  What  you  are  thinking  of  is  quite  out  of  the 

250 


COL.  ABINGER   TAKES   COMMAND 

question,"  replied  Dick,  feeling  that  it  was  a  cruel 
fate  which  compelled  him  to  act  a  father's  part  to 
Mary ;  "  and  besides,  Mary  does  not  care  for  him 
like  that.     She  told  me  so  herself" 

"  Oh,  but  she  does,"  Nell  replied,  in  a  tone  of 
conviction. 

"  Did  she  tell  you  so  *?  " 

"  No,  she  said  she  didn't,"  answered  Nell,  as  if 
that  made  no  difference. 

"  Well,"  said  Dick,  wearily,  "  it  is  much  better 
that  Angus  should  not  come  here  again." 

Nevertheless,  when  Dick  returned  to  London  he 
carried  in  his  pocket  an  invitation  to  Rob  to  spend 
the  following  Saturday  at  the  '^aivny  Ozcl.  It  was 
a  very  nice  note  in  Mary  Abinger's  handwriting, 
and  Dick  would  have  liked  to  drop  it  over  the 
Hungerfield  Bridge.  He  gave  it  to  Rob,  how- 
ever, and  stood  on  the  defensive. 

The  note  began,  "Dear  Mr.  Angus,  Mrs. 
Meredith  would  be  very  pleased  if  you  could —  " 

The  blood  came  to  Rob's  face  as  he  saw  the 
handwriting,  but  it  went  as  quickly. 

"  They  ask  me  down  next  Saturday,"  Rob 
said  bluntly  to  Dick,  "  but  you  know  why  I  can't 
go." 

"  You  had  better  come,"  miserable  Dick  said, 
defying  himself. 

"  She  is  to  marry  Dowton,  is  she  not  ?  "  Rob 
asked,  but  with  no  life  in  his  voice. 

■        251 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Dick  turned  away  his  head,  to  leave  the  rest  to 
fate. 

"  So,  of  course  I  must  not  go,"  Rob  continued, 
bravely. 

Dick  did  not  dare  to  look  him  in  the  face,  but 
Rob  put  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mary's 
brother. 

"  I  was  a  madman,"  he  said,  "  to  think  that  she 
could  ever  have  cared  for  mc,  but  this  will  not 
interfere  with  our  friendship,  Abinger?" 

"  Surely  not,"  said  Dick,  taking  Rob's  hand. 

It  was  one  of  those  awful  moments  in  men's 
lives  when  they  allow,  face  to  face,  that  they  like 
each  other. 

Rob  concluded  that  Mrs.  Meredith,  knowing 
nothing  of  his  attachment  for  Mary,  saw  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  return  to  the  houseboat,  and 
that  circumstances  had  compelled  Mary  to  write 
the  invitation.  His  blundering  honesty  would  not 
let  him  concoct  a  polite  excuse  for  declining  it, 
and  Mrs.  Meredith  took  his  answer  amiss,  while 
Nell  dared  not  say  what  she  thought  for  fear  of 
Dick.  Mary  read  his  note  over  once,  and  then  went 
for  a  solitary  walk  round  the  island.  Rob  saw  her 
from  the  tow-path,  where  he  had  been  prowling 
about  for  hours  in  hopes  of  catching  a  last  glimpse 
of  her.  Her  face  was  shaded  beneath  her  big 
straw  hat,  and  no  baby-yacht,  such  as  the  Thames 
sports,  ever  glided  down  the  river  more  prettily 

252 


COL.  ABINGER   TAKES   COMMAND 

than  she  tripped  along  the  island  path.  Once  her 
white  frock  caught  in  a  dilapidated  seat,  and  she 
had  to  stoop  to  loosen  it.  Rob's  heart  stopped 
beating  for  a  moment  just  then.  The  way  Mary 
extricated  herself  was  another  revelation.  He  re- 
membered having  thought  it  delightful  that  she 
seldom  hnew  what  day  ot  the  month  it  was,  and 
having  looked  on  in  an  ecstasy  while  she  searcned 
for  the  pocket  of  her  dress.  The  day  before  Mrs. 
Meredith  had  not  been  able  to  find  her  pocket,  and 
Rob  had  thought  it  foolish  of  ladies  not  to  wear 
their  pockets  where  they  could  be  more  easily  got 
at. 

Rob  did  not  know  it,  but  Mary  saw  him.  She 
had  but  to  beckon,  and  in  three  minutes  he  would 
have  been  across  the  ferry.  She  gave  no  sign, 
however,  but  sat  dreamily  on  the  ramshackle  seat 
that  patient  anglers  have  used  until  the  Thames 
fishes  must  think  seat  and  angler  part  of  the  same 
vegetable.  Though  Mary  would  not  for  worlds 
have  let  him  know  that  she  saw  him,  she  did  not 
mind  his  standing  afar  off  and  looking  at  her. 
Once  after  that  Rob  started  involuntarily  for 
Molesey,  but  realizing  what  he  was  about  by  the 
time  he  reached  Surbiton,  he  got  out  of  the  train 
there  and  returned  to  London. 

An  uneasy  feeling  possessed  Dick  that  Mary 
knew  of  the  misunderstanding  which  kept  Rob 
away,  and  possibly  even  of  her  brother's  share  in 

253 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

fostering  it.  If  so,  she  was  too  proud  to  end  it. 
He  found  that  if  he  mentioned  Rob  to  her  she  did 
not  answer  a  word.  Nell's  verbal  experiments  in 
the  same  direction  met  with  a  similar  fate,  and 
every  one  was  glad  when  the  colonel  reappeared  to 
take  command. 

Colonel  Abinger  was  only  in  London  for  a  few 
days,  being  on  his  way  to  Glen  Ouharity,  the  tenant 
of  which  was  already  telegraphing  him  glorious 
figures  about  the  grouse.  Mary  was  going  too, 
and  the  Merediths  were  shortly  to  return  to  Sil- 
chester. 

*'  There  is  a  Thrums  man  on  this  stair,"  Diclc 
said  to  his  father  one  afternoon  in  Frobisher's  Inn, 
"a  particular  friend  of  mine,  though  I  have  treated 
him  villainously." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  colonel,  who  had  just  come  up 
from  the  houseboat,  "  then  you  might  have  him  in, 
and  make  your  difference  up.  Perhaps  he  could 
give  me  some  information  about  the  shooting." 

"  Possibly,"  Dick  said ;  "  but  we  have  no  differ- 
ence to  make  up,  because  he  thinks  me  as  honest 
as  himself     You  have  met  him,  I  believe.  '* 

"  What  did  you  say  his  name  was  ?  " 

"  His  name  is  Angus." 

'*  I  can't  recall  any  Angus." 

"  Ah,  you  never  knew  him  so  well  as  Mary  and 
I  do." 

"  Mary  ?  "  asked  the  colonel,  looking  up  quickly. 

254 


COL.  ABINGER   TAKES   COMMAND 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick.  "  Do  you  remember  a  man 
from  a  Silchester  paper  who  was  at  the  Castle  last 
Christmas  ?  " 

"  What ! "  cried  the  colonel,  "  an  underbred, 
poaching  fellow  who  —  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Dick,  "  an  excellent  gentle- 
man, who  is  to  make  his  mark  here,  and,  as  I 
have  said,  my  very  particular  friend." 

"  That  fellow  turned  up  again,"  groaned  the 
colonel. 

"  I  have  something  more  to  tell  you  of  him," 
continued  Dick,  remorselessly.  "  I  have  reason  to 
believe,  as  we  say  on  the  press  when  hard  up  for 
copy,  that  he  is  in  love  with  Mary." 

The  colonel  sprang  from  his  seat.  "  Be  calm," 
said  Dick. 

"  I  am  calm,"  cried  the  colonel,  not  saying  an- 
other word,  so  fearful  was  he  of  what  Dick  might 
tell  him  next. 

"  That  would  not  perhaps  so  much  matter,"  Dick 
said,  coming  to  rest  at  the  back  of  a  chair,  "  if  it 
were  not  that  Mary  seems  to  have  an  equal  regard 
for  him." 

Colonel  Abinger's  hands  clutched  the  edge  of 
the  table,  and  it  was  not  a  look  of  love  he  cast  at 
Dick. 

"  If  this  be  true,"  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  break- 
ing in  agitation,  "  I  shall  never  forgive  you,  Rich- 
ard, never.    But  I  don't  believe  it." 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Dick  felt  sorry  for  his  father. 

"  It  is  a  fact  that  has  to  be  faced,"  he  said,  more 

gently. 

"  Why,  why,  why,  the  man  is  a  pauper  I " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Dick.  "  He  may  be  on 
the  regular  staff  of  the  IVire  any  day  now." 

"  You  dare  to  look  me  in  the  face,  and  tell  me 
you  have  encouraged  this,  this "  cried  the  col- 
onel, choking  in  a  rush  of  words. 

"  Quite  the  contrary,"  Dick  said ;  "  I  have  done 
^nore  than  I  had  any  right  to  do  to  put  an  end  to  it." 

"Then  it  is  ended?" 

"  I  can't  say." 

"  It  shall  be  ended,"  shouted  the  colonel,  making 
the  table  groan  under  his  fist. 

"  In  a  manner,"  Dick  said,  "  you  are  responsible 
for  the  whole  affair.  Do  you  remember  when  you 
were  at  Glen  Ouharity  two  or  three  years  ago 
asking  a  parson  called  Rorrison,  father  of  Rorrison 
the  war  correspondent,  to  use  his  son's  press  influ- 
ence on  behalf  of  a  Thrums  man  ?  Well,  Angus 
is  that  man.  Is  it  not  strange  how  this  has  come 
about  ?  " 

"  It  is  enough  to  make  me  hate  myself,"  replied 
the  irate  colonel,  though  it  had  not  quite  such  an 
effect  as  that. 

When  his  father  had  subsided  a  little,  Dick  told 
him  of  what  had  been  happening  in  England  during 
the  last  month  or  two.    There  had  been  a  change 

256 


COL.  ABINGER   TAKES   COMMAND 

of  Government,  but  the  chief  event  was  the  audacity 
of  a  plebeian  in  casting  his  eyes  on  a  patrician's 
daughter.  What  are  politics  when  the  pipes  in  the 
bath-room  burst? 

"  So  you  see,  "  Dick  said  in  conclusion,  *'  I  have 
acted  the  part  of  the  unrelenting  parent  fairly  well, 
and  I  don't  like  it." 

"  Had  I  been  in  your  place,"  replied  the  colonel, 
"  I  would  have  acted  it  a  good  deal  better." 

"  You  would  have  told  Angus  that  you  consid- 
ered him,  upon  the  whole,  the  meanest  thing  that 
crawls,  and  that  if  he  came  within  a  radius  of  five 
miles  of  your  daughter  you  would  have  the  law 
of  him'?  Yes;  but  that  sort  of  trespassing  is  not 
actionable  nowadays;  and  besides,  I  don't  know 
what  Mary  might  have  said." 

"  Trespassing !  "  echoed  the  colonel ;  "  I  could 
have  had  the  law  of  him  for  trespassing  nearly  a 
year  ago." 

"  You  mean  that  time  you  caught  him  fishing 
in  the  Dome  ?  I  only  heard  of  that  at  second- 
hand ,  but  I  have  at  least  no  doubt  that  he  fished 
to  some  effect." 

"  He  can  fish,"  admitted  the  colonel ;  "  I  should 
like  to  know  what  flies  he  used." 

Dick  laughed. 

"  Angus,"  he  said,  "  is  a  man  with  a  natural  ap- 
titude for  things.  He  does  not,  I  suspect,  even 
make  love  like  a  beginner." 

257 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE 

*'  You  are  on  his  side,  Richard." 

"  It  has  not  seemed  like  it  so  far,  but,  I  confess, 
I  have  certainly  had  enough  of  shuffling." 

"There  will  be  no  more  shuffling,"  said  the 
colonel,  fiercely.  "  I  shall  see  this  man  and  tell 
him  what  I  think  of  him.     As  for  Mary " 

He  paused. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  "  Mary  is  the  difficulty.  At 
present  I  cannot  even  tell  you  what  she  is  thinking 
of  it  all.  Mary  is  the  one  person  I  could  never 
look  in  the  face  when  I  meditated  an  underhand 
action  —  I  remember  how  that  sense  of  honour  of 
hers  used  to  annoy  me  when  I  was  a  boy  —  and  so 
I  have  not  studied  her  countenance  much  of  late." 

"She  shall  marry  Dowton,"  said  the  colonel, 
decisively. 

"  It  is  probably  a  pity,  but  I  don't  think  she 
will,"  replied  Dick.  "  Of  course  you  can  prevent 
her  marrying  Angus  by  simply  refusing  your  con- 
sent." 

"  Yes,  and  I  shall  refuse  it." 

"  Though  it  should  break  her  heart  she  will 
never  complain,"  said  Dick,  "  but  it  does  seem  a 
little  hard  on  Mary  that  we  should  mar  her  life 
rather  than  endure  a  disappointment  ourselves." 

"  You  don't  look  at  it  in  the  proper  light,"  said 
the  colonel,  who,  like  most  persons,  made  the 
proper  light  himself;  "  in  saving  her  from  this 
man  we  do  her  the  greatest  kindness  in  our  power.' 

258 


COL.  ABINGER   TAKES   COMMAND 

"  Um,"  said  Dick,  "  of  course.  That  was  how  I 
put  it  to  myself,  but  just  consider  Angus  calmly, 
and  see  what  case  we  have  against  him." 

"  He  is  not  a  gentleman,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  He  ought  not  to  be,  according  to  the  proper 
light,  but  he  is." 

"  Pshaw  I "  the  colonel  exclaimed,  pettishly. 
"  He  may  have  worked  himself  up  into  some  sort 
of  position,  like  other  discontented  men  of  his  class, 
but  he  never  had  a  father." 

"  He  says  he  had  a  very  good  one.  Weigh  him, 
it  you  like,  against  Dowton,  who  is  a  good  fellow 
in  his  way,  but  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  did  an 
honest  day's  work  in  his  life.  Dowton's  whole 
existence  has  been  devoted  to  pleasure-seeking, 
while  Angus  has  been  climbing  up  ever  since  he 
was  born,  and  with  a  heavy  load  on  his  back,  too, 
most  of  the  time.  If  he  goes  on  as  he  is  doing,  he 
will  have  both  a  good  income  and  a  good  position 
shortly." 

"  Dowton's  position  is  made,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Dick,  "  and  Angus  is  making 
his  for  himself  Whatever  other  distinction  we 
draw  between  them  is  a  selfish  one,  and  I  question 
if  it  does  us  much  credit." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  the  colonel,  "  that 
Mary's  pride  will  make  her  see  this  matter  as  I  do." 

"  It  will  at  least  make  her  sacrifice  herself  for 
our  pride,  if  you  insist  on  that." 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Mary's  father  loved  her  as  he  had  loved  her 
mother,  though  he  liked  to  have  his  own  way  with 
both  of  them.  His  voice  broke  a  little  as  he  an- 
swered Dick. 

"  You  have  a  poor  opinion  of  your  father,  my 
boy,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  would  endure  a  good 
deal  if  Mary  were  to  be  the  happier  for  it." 

Dick  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  himself 

"  Whatever  I  may  say,"  he  answered,  "  I  have 
at  least  acted  much  as  you  would  have  done  your- 
self    Forgive  me,  father." 

The  colonel  looked  up  with  a  wan  smile. 

"  Let  us  talk  of  your  affairs  rather,  Richard,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  at  least  nothing  to  say  against  Miss 
Meredith." 

Dick  moved  uncomfortably  in  his  chair,  and 
then  stood  up,  thinking  he  heard  a  knock  at  the 
door. 

"  Are  you  there,  Abinger  ?  "  some  one  called  out. 
"  I  have  something  very  extraordinary  to  tell  you." 

Dick  looked  at  his  father,  and  hesitated.  "  It  is 
Angus,"  he  said. 

"  Let  him  in,"  said  the  colonel. 


260 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE    BARBER    OF  ROTTEN  ROW 

Rob  Started  when  he  saw  Mary's  father. 

"  We  have  met  before,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  the 
colonel,  courteously. 

"Yes,"  answered  Rob,  without  a  tremor;  "at 
Dome  Castle,  was  it  not  ?  " 

This  was  the  Angus  who  had  once  been  unable 
to  salute  anybody  without  wondering  what  on 
earth  he  ought  to  say  next.  This  was  the  colonel 
whose  hand  had  gaped  five  minutes  before  for 
Rob's  throat.  The  frown  on  the  face  of  Mary's 
father  was  only  a  protest  against  her  lover's  im- 
proved appearance.  Rob  was  no  longer  the  hob- 
bledehoy of  last  Christmas.  He  was  rather  par- 
ticular about  the  cut  of  his  coat.  He  had  forgotten 
that  he  was  not  a  colonel's  social  equal.  In  short, 
when  he  entered  a  room  now  he  knew  what  to  do 
with  his  hat.  Their  host  saw  the  two  men  meas- 
uring each  other.  Dick  never  smiled,  but  some- 
times his  mouth  twitched,  as  now. 

"  You  had  something  special  to  tell  me,  had  you 
not  ?  "  he  asked  Rob. 

261 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

•'  Well,"  Rob  replied,  with  hesitation,  "  I  have 
something  for  you  in  my  rooms." 

"  Suppose  my  father,"  began  Dick,  meaning  to 
invite  the  colonel  upstairs,  but  pausing  as  he  saw 
Rob's  brows  contract.  The  colonel  saw  too,  and 
resented  it.  No  man  likes  to  be  left  on  the  out- 
skirts of  a  secret. 

"  Run  up  yourself,  Abinger,"  Rob  said,  seating 
himself  near  Mary's  father;  "and,  stop,  here  are 
my  keys.     I  locked  it  in." 

"  Why,"  asked  Dick,  while  his  father  also  looked 
up,  "  have  you  some  savage  animal  up  there  ?  " 

"  No,"  Rob  said,  "  it  is  very  tame." 

Dick  climbed  the  stair,  after  casting  a  quizzical 
look  behind  him,  which  meant  that  he  wondered 
how  long  the  colonel  and  Rob  would  last  in  a 
small  room  together.  He  unlocked  the  door  of 
Rob's  chambers  more  quickly  than  he  opened  it, 
for  he  had  no  notion  of  what  might  be  caged  up 
inside,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  entered  he  stopped, 
amazed.  All  men  of  course  are  amazed  once  in 
their  lives  —  when  they  can  get  a  girl  to  look  at 
them.     This  was  Dick's  second  time. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  evening  when  another  ten 
minutes  can  be  stolen  from  the  day  by  a  readjust- 
ment of  one's  window  curtains.  Rob's  blind,  how- 
ever, had  given  way  in  the  cords,  and  instead  of 
being  pulled  up  was  twisted  into  two  triangles. 
Just  sufficient  light  straggled  through  the  window 

262 


THE  BARBER  OF  ROTTEN  ROW 

tc  let  Dick  see  the  man  who  was  standing  on  the 
hearthrug  looking  sullenly  at  his  boots.  There 
was  a  smell  of  oil  in  the  room. 

"  Dowton  !  "  Dick  exclaimed ;  "what  masquerade 
is  this  ?  " 

The  other  put  up  his  elbow,  as  if  to  ward  off  a 
blow,  and  then  Dick  opened  the  eyes  of  anger. 

" Oh,"  he  said,  "  it  is  you,  is  it?  " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  in  silence. 

"Just  stand  there,  my  fine  fellow,"  Dick  said, 
"  until  I  light  the  gas.  I  must  have  a  better  look 
at  you." 

The  stranger  turned  longing  eyes  on  the  door  as 
the  light  struck  him. 

"  Not  a  single  step  in  that  direction,"  said  Dick, 
"  unless  you  want  to  go  over  the  banisters." 

Abinger  came  closer  to  the  man  who  was  Sir 
Clement  Dowton's  double,  and  looked  him  over. 
He  wore  a  white  linen  jacket,  and  an  apron  to 
match,  and  it  would  have  been  less  easy  to  mistake 
him  for  a  baronet  aping  the  barber  than  it  had 
been  for  the  barber  to  ape  the  baronet. 

"  Your  name  *?  "  asked  Dick. 

"Josephs,"  the  other  mumbled. 

"  You  are  a  barber,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  I  follow  the  profession  of  hair-dressing,"  replied 
Josephs,  with  his  first  show  of  spirit. 

Had  Dick  not  possessed  an  inscrutable  face, 
Josephs  would  have  known  that  his  inquisitor  was 

263 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

suffering  from  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous.     Dick  had 
iust  remembered  that  his  father  was  downstairs. 

"  Well,  Josephs,  I  shall  have  to  hand  you  over 
to  the  police." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Josephs,  in  his  gentlemanly 
voice. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Dick. 

"  Because  then  it  would  all  come  out." 

"  What  would  all  come  out." 

"  The  way  your  father  was  deceived.  The  so- 
ciety papers  would  make  a  great  deal  of  it,  and 
he  would  not  like  that." 

Dick  groaned,  though  the  other  did  not  hear  him. 

"  You  read  the  society  journals,  Josephs  ?  " 

"  Rather !  "  said  Josephs. 

"  Perhaps  you  write  for  them  *?  " 

Josephs  did  not  say. 

"  Well,  how  were  you  brought  here  ?  "  Dick 
asked. 

"  Your  friend,"  said  Josephs,  sulkily,  "  came  into 
our  place  of  business  in  Southampton  Row  half  an 
hour  ago,  and  saw  me.  He  insisted  on  bringing 
me  here  at  once  in  a  cab.  I  wanted  to  put  on  a 
black  coat,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it." 

"  Ah,  then,  I  suppose  you  gave  Mr.  Angus  the 
full  confession  of  your  roguery  as  you  came 
along?" 

"  He  would  not  let  me  speak,"  said  Josephs. 
"  He  said  it  was  no  affair  of  his." 

264 


THE  BARBER  OF  ROTTEN  ROW 

"  No  ?  Then  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  favour 
me  with  the  pretty  story." 

Dick  lit  a  cigar  and  seated  himself.  The  sham 
baronet  looked  undecidedly  at  a  chair. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Dick  ;  "  you  can  stand." 

Josephs  told  his  tale  demurely,  occasionally  with 
a  gleam  of  humour,  and  sometimes  with  a  sigh. 
His  ambition  to  be  a  gentleman,  but  with  no  de- 
sire to  know  the  way,  had  come  to  him  one  day  in 
his  youth  when  another  gentleman  flung  a  sixpence 
at  him.  In  a  moment  Josephs  saw  what  it  was 
to  belong  to  the  upper  circles.  He  hurried  to  a 
street  corner  to  get  his  boots  blacked,  tossed  the 
menial  the  sixpence,  telling  him  to  keep  the  change, 
and  returned  home  in  an  ecstasy,  penniless,  but  with 
an  object  in  life.     That  object  was  to  do  it  again. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  Josephs  slaved  merrily 
during  the  week,  but  had  never  any  money  by 
Monday  morning.  He  was  a  gentleman  every 
Saturday  evening.  Then  he  lived;  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  week  he  was  a  barber.  One  of  his 
delights  at  this  period  was  to  have  his  hair  cut  at 
Truefitt's,  and  complain  that  it  was  badly  done. 
Having  reproved  his  attendant  in  a  gentlemanly 
way,  he  tipped  him  handsomely  and  retired  in  a 
glory.  It  was  about  this  time  that  he  joined  a 
Conservative  association. 

Soon  afterwards  Josephs  was  to  be  seen  in 
Rotten  Row,  in  elegant  apparel,  hanging  over  the 

265 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

railing.  He  bowed  and  raised  his  hat  to  the 
ladies  who  took  his  fancy,  and,  though  they  did 
not  respond,  glowed  with  the  sensation  of  being 
practically  a  man  of  fashion.  Then  he  returned 
to  the  shop. 

The  years  glided  by,  and  Josephs  discovered 
that  he  was  perfectly  content  to  remain  a  hair- 
dresser if  he  could  be  a  gentleman  now  and  again. 
Having  supped  once  in  a  fashionable  restaurant, 
he  was  satisfied  for  a  fortnight  or  so  with  a  sausage 
and  onions  at  home.  Then  the  craving  came  back. 
He  saved  up  for  two  months  on  one  occasion,  and 
then  took  Saturday  to  Monday  at  Cookham, 
where  he  passed  as  Henry  K.  Talbot  Devereux. 
He  was  known  to  the  waiters  and  boatmen  there 
as  the  gentleman  who  had  quite  a  pleasure  in 
tossing  them  half-crowns,  and  for  a  month  after- 
wards he  had  sausage  without  onions.  So  far  this 
holiday  had  been  the  memory  of  his  life.  He 
studied  the  manners  and  language  of  the  gentle- 
men who  came  to  the  shop  in  which  he  was  em- 
ployed, and  began  to  dream  of  a  big  thing  annu- 
ally. He  had  learnt  long  ago  that  he  was  remark- 
ably good-looking. 

For  a  whole  year  Josephs  abstained  from  being 
a  gentleman  except  in  the  smallest  way,  for  he 
was  burning  to  have  a  handle  to  his  name,  and 
feared  that  it  could  not  be  done  at  less  than  twenty 
pounds.    His  week's  holiday  came,  and  found  Jo- 

266 


THE   BARBER   OF   ROTTEN   ROW 

sephs  not  ready  for  it.  He  had  only  twelve 
pounds.  With  a  self-denial  that  was  magnificent 
he  crushed  his  aspirations,  took  only  two  days  of 
delight  at  Brighton,  and  continued  to  save  up  for 
the  title.  Next  summer  saw  him  at  the  Anglers' 
Retreat,  iiear  Dome  Castle.  "  Sir  Clement  Dow- 
ton  "  was  the  name  on  his  Gladstone  bag.  A  dozen 
times  a  day  he  looked  at  it  till  it  frightened  him, 
and  then  he  tore  the  label  off.  Having  done  so, 
he  put  on  a  fresh  one. 

Josephs  had  selected  his  baronetcy  with  due 
care.  Years  previously  he  had  been  told  that  he 
looked  like  the  twin-brother  of  Sir  Clement  Dow- 
ton,  and  on  inquiry  he  had  learned  that  the  baronet 
was  not  in  England.  As  for  the  Anglers'  Retreat, 
he  went  there  because  he  had  heard  that  it  was 
frequented  by  persons  in  the  rank  of  life  to  which 
it  was  his  intention  to  belong  for  the  next  week. 
He  had  never  heard  of  Colonel  Abinger  until  they 
met.  The  rest  is  known.  Josephs  dwelt  on  his  resi- 
dence at  Dome  Castle  with  his  eyes  shut,  like  a  street- 
arab  lingering  lovingly  over  the  grating  of  a  bakery. 

"  Well,  you  are  a  very  admirable  rogue,"  Dick 
said,  when  Josephs  had  brought  his  story  to  an 
end,  "and,  though  I  shall  never  be  proud  again, your 
fluency  excuses  our  blindness.  Where  did  you  pick 
it  up?"     The  barber  glowed  with  gratification. 

"  It  came  naturally  to .  me,"  he  answered.  "  I 
was  intended  for  a  gentleman.     I  daresay,  now,  I 

267 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

am  about  the  only  case  on  record  of  a  man  who 
took  to  pickles  and  French  sauces  the  first  time  he 
tried  them.  Mushrooms  were  not  an  acquired 
taste  with  me,  nor  black  coffee,  nor  caviare,  nor 
liqueurs,  and  I  enjoy  celery  with  my  cheese.  What 
I  liked  best  of  all  was  the  little  round  glasses  you 
dip  your  fingers  into  when  the  dinner  is  finished. 
I  dream  of  them  still." 

"  You  are  burst  up  for  the  present,  Josephs,  I 
presume  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  shall  be  able  to  do  something  in  a 
small  way  next  Christmas.  I  should  like  to  put 
it  off  till  summer,  but  I  can't." 

"  There  must  be  no  more  donning  the  name  of 
Dowton,"  said  Dick,  trying  to  be  stern. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  give  that  up,"  the 
barber  said,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  had  to  bolt,  you  see, 
last  time,  before  I  meant  to  go." 

"Ah,  you  have  not  told  me  yet  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  those  sudden  disappearances.  Excuse 
my  saying  so,  Josephs,  but  they  were  scarcely  gen- 
tlemanly." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Josephs,  sadly,  "  but  however 
carefully  one  plans  a  thing,  it  may  take  a  wrong 
turning.  The  first  time  I  was  at  the  castle  I  meant 
to  leave  in  a  carriage  and  pair,  waving  my  hand- 
kerchief, but  it  could  not  be  done  at  the  money." 

"  The  colonel  would  have  sent  you  to  Silchester 
in  his  own  trap." 

268 


THE  BARBER  OF  ROTTEN  ROW 

"Ah,  I  wanted  a  brougham.  You  see  I  had 
been  a  little  extravagant  at  the  inn,  and  I  could 
not  summon  up  courage  to  leave  the  castle  without 
tipping  the  servants  all  round." 

"  So  you  waited  till  you  were  penniless,  and  then 
stole  away  ?  " 

"  Not  quite  penniless,"  said  Josephs ;  "  I  had 
three  pounds  left,  but  —  " 

He  hesitated. 

"You  see,"  he  blurted  out,  blushing  at  last, 
"  my  old  mother  is  dependent  on  me,  and  I  kept 
the  three  pounds  for  her." 

Dick  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,  Josephs,"  he  said, 
"  because  I  meant  to  box  your  ears  presently,  and 
I  don't  know  that  I  can  do  it  now.  How  about 
the  sudden  termination  to  the  visit  you  honored 
the  colonel  with  last  Christmas  ?  " 

"  I  had  to  go,"  said  Josephs,  "  because  I  read 
that  Sir  Clement  Dowton  had  returned  to  England. 
Besides,  I  was  due  at  the  shop." 

"  But  you  had  an  elegant  time  while  your  money 
held  out?" 

Josephs  wiped  a  smile  from  his  face. 

"  It  was  grand,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  never  know 
such  days  again." 

"  I  hope  not,  Josephs.  Was  there  no  streak  of 
cloud  in  those  halcyon  days  ?  " 

The  barber  sighed  heavily. 

269 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  Ay,  there  was,"  he  said,  "  hair  oil." 

"  Explain  yourself,  my  gentle  hairdresser." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Josephs,  "  don't  use  hair  oil. 
I  can't  live  without  it.  That  is  my  only  stumbling- 
block  to  being  a  gentleman." 

He  put  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  again 
Dick  sniffed  the  odor  of  oil. 

"  I  had  several  bottles  of  it  with  me,"  Josephs 
continued,  "  but  I  dared  not  use  it." 

"  This  is  interesting,"  said  Dick.  "  I  should  like 
to  know  now,  from  you  who  have  tried  both  pro- 
fessions, whether  you  prefer  the  gentleman  to  the 
barber." 

"  I  do  and  I  don't,"  answered  Josephs.  "  Hair- 
dressing  suits  me  best  as  a  business,  but  gentility 
for  pleasure.  A  fortnight  of  the  gentleman  sets 
me  up  for  the  year.  I  should  not  like  to  be  a 
gentleman  all  the  year  round." 

"  The  hair  oil  is  an  insurmountable  obstacle." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  barber ;  "  besides,  to  be  a  gentle- 
man is  rather  hard  work." 

"  I  daresay  it  is,"  said  Dick,  "  when  you  take  a 
short  cut  to  it.  Well,  I  presume  this  interview  is 
at  an  end.     You  may  go." 

He  jerked  his  foot  in  the  direction  of  the  door, 
but  Josephs  hesitated. 

"  Colonel  Abinger  well  ?  "  asked  the  barber. 

"  The  door,  Josephs,"  replied  Dick. 

"  And  Miss  Abinger  ?  " 

270 


THE  BARBER  OF  ROTTEN  ROW 

Dick  gave  the  barber  a  look  that  hurried  him 
out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs.  Abinger's 
mouth  twitched  every  time  he  took  the  cigar  out 
of  it,  until  he  started  to  his  feet. 

"  I  have  forgotten  that  Angus  and  my  father  are 
together,"  he  murmured.  "  I  wonder,"  he  asked 
himself,  as  he  returned  to  his  own  chambers,  "  how 
the  colonel  will  take  this  ?  Must  he  be  told  ?  I 
think  so." 

Colonel  Abinger  was  told,  as  soon  as  Rob  had 
left,  and  it  added  so  much  fuel  to  his  passion  that 
it  put  the  fire  out. 

"  If  the  story  gets  abroad,"  he  said,  with  a  shud- 
der, "  I  shall  never  hold  up  my  head  again." 

"  It  is  a  safe  secret,"  Dick  answered ;  "  the  fellow 
would  not  dare  to  speak  of  it  anywhere.  He 
knows  what  that  would  mean  for  himself" 

"  Angus  knows  of  it.  Was  it  like  the  chivalrous 
soul  you  make  him  to  flout  this  matter  before  us  ?  " 

"  You  are  hard  up  for  an  argument  against 
Angus,  father.  I  made  him  promise  to  let  me  know 
if  he  ever  came  on  the  track  of  the  impostor,  and 
you  saw  how  anxious  he  was  to  keep  the  discovery 
from  you.  He  asked  me  at  the  door  when  he  was 
going  out  not  to  mention  it  to  either  you  or  Mary." 

"  Confound  him,"  cried  the  colonel,  testily ;  "  but 
he  is  right  about  Mary ;  we  need  not  speak  of  it 
to  her.     She  never  liked  the  fellow." 

"That  was  fortunate," said  Dick,  "but  you  did, 

271 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

flither.  You  thought  that  Josephs  was  a  gentle- 
man, and  you  say  that  Angus  is  not.  Perhaps  you 
have  made  a  mistake  in  both  cases." 

"I  say  nothing  against  Angus,"  replied  the 
colonel,  "  except  that  I  don't  want  him  to  marry 
my  daughter." 

"  Oh,  you  and  he  got  on  well  together,  then  ?  " 

"  He  can  talk.     The  man  has  improved." 

"  You  did  not  talk  about  Mary '?  "  asked  Dick. 

"  We  never  mentioned  her;  how  could  I,  when 
he  supposes  her  engaged  to  Dowton '?  I  shall  talk 
about  him  to  her,  though." 

Two  days  afterwards  Dick  asked  his  father  if  he 
had  talked  to  Mary  about  Angus  yet. 

"  No,  Richard,"  the  old  man  admitted,  feebly,  "  I 
have  not.  The  fact  is  that  she  is  looking  so  proud 
and  stately  just  now,  that  I  feel  nervous  about 
broaching  the  subject." 

"  That  is  exactly  how  I  feel,"  said  Dick,  "  but 
Nell  told  me  to-day  that,  despite  her  hauteur  be- 
fore us,  Mary  is  wearing  her  heart  away." 

The  colonel's  fingers  beat  restlessly  on  the 
mantelpiece. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  does  care  for  Angus,"  he  said. 

"  As  much  as  he  cares  for  her,  I  believe,"  replied 
Dick.  "Just  think,"  he  added,  bitterly,  "that 
these  two  people  love  each  other  for  the  best  that 
is  in  them,  one  of  the  rarest  things  in  life,  and  are 
nevertheless  to  be  kept  apart.     Look  here." 

272 


THE  BARBER  OF  ROTTEN  ROW 

Dick  drew  aside  his  blind,  and  pointed  to  a 
light  cast  on  the  opposite  wall  from  a  higher 
window. 

"  That  is  Angus's  light,"  he  said.  "  On  such  a 
night  as  this,  when  he  is  not  wanted  at  the  IVtre^ 
you  will  see  that  light  blazing  into  the  morning. 
Watch  that  moving  shadow ;  it  is  the  reflection  of 
his  arm  as  he  sits  there  writing,  writing,  writing 
with  nothing  to  write  for,  and  only  despair  to  face 
him  when  he  stops.     Is  it  not  too  bad  ?  " 

"  They  will  forget  each  other  in  time,"  said  the 
colonel.  "  Let  Dowton  have  another  chance.  He 
is  to  be  at  the  Lodge." 

"  But  if  they  don't  forget  each  other ;  if  Dowton 
fails  again,  and  Mary  continues  to  eat  her  heart  in 
silence,  what  then  ?  " 

"  We  shall  see." 

"  Look  here,  father,  I  cannot  play  this  pitiful 
part  before  Angus  for  ever.  Let  us  make  a  bar- 
gain. Dowton  gets  a  second  chance ;  if  he  does 
not  succeed,  it  is  Angus's  turn.  Do  you  promise 
me  so  much  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say,"  replied  the  colonel,  thought- 
fully.    "  It  may  come  to  that." 

Rob  was  as  late  in  retiring  to  rest  that  night  as 
Dick  had  predicted,  but  he  wrote  less  than  usual. 
He  had  something  to  think  of  as  he  paced  his 
room,  for,  unlike  her  father  and  brother,  he  knew 
that  when  Mary  was  a  romantic  schoolgirl  she  had 

273 


WHEN   A    MAN'S   SINGLE 

dressed  the  sham  baronet,  as  a  child  may  dress  her 
doll,  in  the  virtues  of  a  hero.  He  shuddered  to 
think  of  her  humiliation  should  she  ever  hear  the 
true  story  of  Josephs  —  as  she  never  did.  Yet 
many  a  lady  of  high  degree  has  given  her  heart  to 
a  baronet  who  was  better  fitted  to  be  a  barber. 


274 


CHAPTER   XVII 

ROB    PULLS    HIMSELF   TOGETHER 

In  a  London  fog  the  street-lamps  are  up  and  about, 
running  maliciously  at  pedestrians.  He  is  in  love 
or  writing  a  book  who  is  struck  by  one  without 
remonstrating.  One  night  that  autumn  a  fog  crept 
through  London  a  month  before  it  was  due,  and 
Rob  met  a  lamp-post  the  following  afternoon  on 
his  way  home  from  the  IVire  office.  He  passed 
on  without  a  word,  though  he  was  not  writing  a 
book.  Something  had  happened  that  day,  and, 
but  for  Mary  Abinger,  Rob  would  have  been  wish- 
ing that  his  mother  could  see  him  now. 

The  editor  of  the  Wire  had  called  him  into  a 
private  room,  in  which  many  a  young  gentleman, 
who  only  wanted  a  chance  to  put  the  world  to 
rights,  has  quaked,  hat  in  hand,  before  now.  It  is 
the  dusty  sanctum  from  which  Mr.  Rowbotham 
wearily  distributes  glory  or  consternation,  some- 
times with  niggardly  hand  and  occasionally  like 
an  African  explorer  scattering  largess  among  the 
natives.  Mr.  Rowbotham  might  be  even  a  greater 
editor  than  he  is  if  he  was  sure  that  it  is  quite  the 

275 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

proper  thing  for  so  distinguished  a  man  as  himself 
to  believe  in  anything,  and  some  people  think  that 
his  politics  are  to  explain  away  to-day  the  position 
he  took  up  yesterday.  He  seldom  writes  himself, 
and,  while  directing  the  line  to  be  adopted  by  his 
staff,  he  smokes  a  cigar  which  he  likes  to  probe 
with  their  pens.  He  is  pale  and  thin,  and  has  rov- 
ing eyes,  got  from  always  being  on  the  alert  against 
aspirants. 

All  the  chairs  in  the  editorial  room,  except  Mr. 
Rowbotham's  own,  had  been  converted,  like  the 
mantelpiece,  into  temporary  bookcases.  Rob 
tumbled  the  books  off  one  (your  "  Inquiry  into 
the  State  of  Ireland  "  was  among  them,  gentle 
reader)  much  as  a  coal-heaver  topples  his  load 
into  a  cellar,  or  like  a  housewife  emptying  her 
apron. 

"You  suit  me  very  well,  Angus,"  the  editor 
said.  "You  have  no  lurking  desire  to  write  a 
book,  have  you  *?  " 

"  No,"  Rob  answered ;  "  since  I  joined  the  Press 
that  ambition  seems  to  have  gone  from  me." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Rowbotham,  his  tone  im- 
plying that  Rob  now  left  the  court  without  a  stain 
upon  his  character.  The  editor's  cigar  went  out, 
and  he  made  a  spill  of  a  page  from  "  Sonnets 
of  the  Woods,"  which  had  just  come  in  for  review. 

"  As  you  know,"  the  editor  continued,  "  I  have 
been  looking  about  me  for  a  leader-writer  for  the 

276 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF   TOGETHER 

last  year.  You  have  a  way  of  keeping  your  head 
that  I  like,  and  your  style  is  not  so  villainously 
bad.     Are  you  prepared  to  join  us  *?  " 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Rob. 

"  Very  well.  You  will  start  with  ^800  a  year. 
Ricketts,  as  you  may  have  heard,  has  half  as  much 
again  as  that,  but  he  has  been  with  us  some  time." 

"All  right,"  said  Rob,  calmdy,  though  his  chest 
was  swelling.  He  used  to  receive  an  order  for  a 
sack  of  shavings  in  the  same  tone. 

"  You  expected  this,  I  daresay  ?  "  asked  the 
editor. 

"  Scarcely,"  said  Rob.  "  I  thought  you  would 
offer  the  appointment  to  Marriott;  he  is  a  much 
cleverer  man  than  I  am." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Mr.  Rowbotham,  more  readily 
than  Rob  thought  necessary.  "  I  have  had  Mar- 
riott in  my  eye  for  some  time,  but  I  rather  think 
Marriott  is  a  genius,  and  so  he  would  not  do  for 
us." 

"  You  never  had  that  suspicion  of  me  ?  "  asked 
Rob,  a  little  blankly. 

"  Never,"  said  the  editor,  frankly.  "  I  saw  from 
the  first  that  you  were  a  man  to  be  trusted. 
Moderate  Radicalism  is  our  policy,  and  not  even 
Ricketts  can  advocate  moderation  so  vehemently 
as  you  do.  You  fight  for  it  with  a  flail.  By  the 
way,  you  are  Scotch,  I  think  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Rob. 

277 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  I  only  asked,"  the  editor  explained,  "  because 
of  the  shall  and  the  will  difficulty.  Have  you  got 
over  that  yet  ?  " 

"  No,"  Rob  said,  sadly,  "  and  never  will." 

"  I  shall  warn  the  proof-readers  to  be  on  the 
alert,"  Mr,  Rowbotham  said,  laughing,  though 
Rob  did  not  see  what  at.  "  Dine  with  me  at  the 
Garrick  on  Wednesday  week,  will  you  ?  " 

Rob  nodded,  and  was  retiring,  when  the  editor 
called  after  him  — 

"  You  are  not  a  married  man,  Angus  *?  " 

"  No,"  said  Rob,  with  a  sickly  smile. 

"Ah,  you  should  marry,"  recommended  M.. 
Rowbotham,  who  is  a  bachelor.  "  You  would  be 
worth  another  two  hundred  a  year  to  us  then.  I 
wish  I  could  find  the  time  to  do  it  myself" 

Rob  left  the  office  a  made  man,  but  looking  as 
if  it  all  had  happened  some  time  ago.  There  were 
men  shivering  in  Fleet  Street  as  he  passed  down  it 
who  had  come  to  London  on  the  same  day  as  him- 
self, every  one  with  a  tragic  story  to  tell  now,  and 
some  already  seeking  the  double  death  that  is  called 
drowning  care.  Shadows  of  university  graduates 
passed  him  in  the  fog  who  would  have  been  glad 
to  carry  his  bag.  That  night  a  sandwich-board 
man,  who  had  once  had  a  thousand  a  year,  crept 
into  the  Thames.  Yet  Rob  bored  his  way  home, 
feeling  that  it  was  all  in  vain. 

He  stopped  at  Abinger's  door  to  tell  him  what 

278 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF   TOGETHER 

had  happened,  but  the  chambers  were  locked. 
More  hke  a  man  who  had  lost  ;^8oo  a  year  than 
one  who  had  just  been  offered  it,  he  mounted  to 
his  own  rooms,  hardly  noticing  that  the  door  was 
now  ajar.  The  blackness  of  night  was  in  the  sit- 
ting-room, and  a  smell  of  burning  leather. 

"  Another  pair  of  slippers  gone,"  said  a  voice 
from  the  fireplace.  It  was  Dick,  and  if  he  had  not 
jumped  out  of  one  of  the  slippers  he  would  have 
been  on  fire  himself  Long  experience  had  told 
him  the  exact  moment  to  jump. 

"  I  tried  your  door,"  Rob  said.  "  I  have  news 
for  you." 

"  Well,"  said  Dick,  "  I  forced  my  way  in  here 
because  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  and  resolved 
not  to  miss  you.  Who  speaks  first  ?  My  news 
is  bad  —  at  least  for  me." 

"  Mine  is  good,"  said  Rob;  "  we  had  better  finish 
up  with  it." 

"  Ah,"  Dick  replied,  "  but  when  you  hear  mine 
you  may  not  care  to  tell  me  yours." 

Dick  spoke  first,  however,  and  ever  afterwards 
was  glad  that  he  had  done  so. 

"  Look  here,  Angus,"  he  said,  bluntly,  "  I  don't 
know  that  Mary  is  engaged  to  Dowton." 

Rob  stood  up  and  sat  down  again. 

"  Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  talking  In  that 
way,"  he  said,  shortly.  "  She  was  engaged  to  him 
six  weeks  ago." 

279 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  No,"  said  Dick,  "  she  was  not,  though  for  all  I 
know,  she  may  be  now." 

Then  Dick  told  his  tale  under  the  fire  of  Rob's 
(^yes.  When  it  was  ended  Rob  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  stared  silently  for  several  minutes  at  a 
vase  on  the  mantelpiece.  Dick  continued  talking, 
but  Rob  did  not  hear  a  word. 

•'I  can't  sit  here,  Abinger,"  he  said;  "there  is 
not  room  to  think.     I  shall  be  back  presently." 

He  was  gone  into  the  fog  the  next  moment. 
"  At  it  again,"  muttered  the  porter,  as  Rob  swung 
past  and  was  lost  ten  paces  off.  He  was  back  in 
an  hour,  walking  more  slowly. 

"  When  the  colonel  writes  to  you,"  he  said,  as 
he  walked  into  his  room,  "  does  he  make  any  men- 
tion of  Dowton  ?  " 

"  He  never  writes,"  Dick  answered ;  "  he  only 
telegraphs  me  now  and  again,  when  a  messenger 
from  the  Lodge  happens  to  be  in  Thrums." 

"  Miss  Abinger  writes  *?  " 

"  Yes.  I  know  from  her  that  Dowton  is  still 
there,  but  that  is  all." 

"  He  would  not  have  remained  so  long,"  said 
Rob,  "  unless  —  unless  —  " 

"  \  don't  know,"  Dick  answered.  "  You  see  it 
would  all  depend  on  Mary,  She  had  a  soft  heart 
for  Dowton  the  day  she  refused  him,  but  I  am  not 
sure  how  she  would  take  his  reappearance  on  the 
scene  again.     If  she  resented  it,  I  don't  think  the 

280 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF   TOGETHER 

boldest  baronet  that  breathes  would  venture  to 
propose  to  Mary  in  her  shell." 

"  The  colonel  might  press  her  ?  " 

"  Hardly,  I  think,  to  marrv  a  man  she  does  not 
care  for.  No,  you  do  him  an  injustice.  What  my 
lather  would  like  to  have  is  the  power  to  compel 
her  to  care  for  Dowton.  No  doubt  he  would  ex- 
ercise that  if  it  was  his." 

"Miss  Abinger  says  nothing  —  sends  no  mes- 
sages —  I  mean,  does  she  ever  mention  me  when 
she  writes  ?  " 

"  Never  a  word,"  said  Dick.  "  Don't  look  pale, 
man ;  it  is  a  good  sign.  Women  go  by  contraries, 
they  say.  Besides,  Mary  is  not  like  Mahomet.  If 
the  mountain  won't  go  to  her,  she  will  never  come 
to  the  mountain." 

Rob  started,  and  looked  at  his  hat. 

"You  can't  walk  to  Glen  Ouharity  Lodge  to- 
night," said  Dick,  following  Rob's  eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  should  go  at  all  ?  " 

"  Why,  welL  you  see,  it  is  this  awkward  want 
ot'an  income  that  spoils  everything,  Now,  if  you 
could  persuade  Rowbotham  to  give  you  a  thou- 
sand a  year,  that  might  have  its  influence  on  my 
father." 

"  I  told  you,"  exclaimed  Rob  ;  "no,  of  course  I 
did  not.  I  joined  the  staff  of  the  Wire  to-day  at 
/8oo." 

"  Your  hand,  young  man,"  said  Dick,  very  nearly 

281 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

becoming  excited.  "  Then  that  is  all  right.  On 
the  Press  every  one  with  a  good  income  can  add 
two  hundred  a  year  to  it.  It  is  only  those  who 
need  the  two  hundred  that  cannot  get  it." 

"You  think  I  should  go  north*?"  said  Rob, 
with  the  whistle  of  the  train  already  in  his  ears. 

"  Ah,  it  is  not  my  affair,"  answered  Dick ;  "  I 
liave  done  my  duty.  I  promised  to  give  Dowton  a 
fair  chance,  and  he  has  had  it.  I  don't  know  what 
use  he  has  made  of  it,  remember.  You  have  over- 
looked my  share  in  this  business,  and  I  retire  now.' 

"  You  are  against  me  still,  Abinger." 

•'  No,  Angus,  on  my  word  I  am  not.  You  are 
as  good  a  man  as  Dowton,  and  if  Mary  thinks  you 
better  —  " 

Dick  shrugged  his  shoulders  to  signify  that  he 
had  freed  them  of  a  load  of  prejudice. 

"  But  does  she  ?  "  said  Rob. 

"  You  will  have  to  ask  herself,"  replied  Dick. 

"Yes;  but  when?" 

"  She  will  probably  be  up  in  town  next  season." 

"  Next  season,"  exclaimed  Rob ;  "  as  well  say 
next  century." 

"  Well,  if  that  is  too  long  to  wait,  suppose  you 
come  to  Dome  Castle  with  me  at  Christmas  ?  " 

Rob  pushed  the  invitation  from  him  contemp- 
tuously. 

"  There  is  no  reason,"  he  said,  looking  at  Dick 
defiantly,  "  why  I  should  not  go  north  to-night." 

282 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF   TOGETHER 

"It  would  be  a  little  hurried,  would  it  not?" 
Dick  said  to  his  pipe. 

"  No,"  Rob  answered,  with  a  happy  inspiration. 
"  I  meant  to  go  to  Thrums  just  now,  for  a  few  days 
at  any  rate.  Rowbotham  does  not  need  me  until 
Friday." 

Rob  looked  up  and  saw  Dick's  mouth  twitching. 
He  tried  to  stare  Mary's  brother  out  of  counte- 
nance, but  could  not  do  it. 

Night  probably  came  on  that  Tuesday  as  usual, 
for  Nature  is  as  much  as  man  a  slave  to  habit,  but 
it  was  not  required  to  darken  London.  If  all  the 
clocks  and  watches  had  broken  their  mainsprings 
no  one  could  have  told  whether  it  was  at  noon  or 
midnight  that  Rob  left  for  Scotland.  It  would 
have  been  equally  impossible  to  say  from  his  face 
whether  he  was  off  to  a  marriage  or  a  funeral.  He 
did  not  know  himself. 

"  This  human  nature  is  a  curious  thing,"  thought 
Dick,  as  he  returned  to  his  rooms.  "  Here  are  two 
of  us  in  misery,  the  one  because  he  fears  he  is  not 
going  to  be  married,  and  the  other  because  he 
knows  he  is." 

He  stretched  himself  out  on  two  chairs. 

"Neither  of  us,  of  course,  is  really  miserable. 
Angus  is  not,  for  he  is  in  love ;  and  I  am  not, 
for  —  "     He  paused,  and  looked  at  his  pipe. 

"No,  I  am  not  miserable  ;  how  could  a  man  be 
miserable  who  has  two  chairs  to  lie  upon,  and  a 

283 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

tobacco  jar  at  his  elbow  *?  I  fancy,  though,  that  I 
am  just  saved  from  misery  by  lack  of  sentiment. 

"  Curious  to  remember  that  I  was  once  senti- 
mental with  the  best  of  them.  This  is  the  Richard 
who  sat  up  all  night  writing  poems  to  Nell's  eye- 
brows.    Ah,  poor  Nell ! 

"  I  wonder,  is  it  my  fault  that  my  passion  burned 
itself  out  in  one  little  crackle  ?  With  most  men, 
if  the  books  tell  true,  the  first  fire  only  goes  out  aftc~ 
the  second  is  kindled,  but  I  seem  to  have  no  more 
sticks  to  light. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married,  though  i  would 
much  rather  remain  single.  My  wife  will  be  the 
only  girl  I  ever  loved,  and  I  like  her  still  more 
than  any  other  girl  I  know.  Though  I  shuddered 
just  now  when  I  thought  of  matrimony,  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  we  shall  get  on  very  well  to- 
gether. 

"  I  should  have  preferred  her  to  prove  as  fickle 
as  myself,  but  now  true  she  has  remained  to  me  I 
Not  to  me,  for  it  is  not  the  real  Dick  Abinger  she 
cares  for,  and  so  I  don't  know  that  Nell's  love  is  of 
the  kind  to  make  a  man  conceited.  Is  marriage  a 
rash  experiment  when  the  woman  loves  the  man 
for  qualities  he  does  not  possess,  and  has  not  dis- 
covered in  years  of  constant  intercourse  the  little 
that  is  really  lovable  in  him  ?  Whatever  I  say  to 
Nell  is  taken  to  mean  the  exact  reverse  of  what  I 

284 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF   TOGETHER 

do  mean;  she  reads  my  writings  upside  down,  as 
one  might  say ;  she  cries  if  I  speak  to  her  of  any- 
thing more  serious  than  flowers  and  waltzes,  but 
she  thinks  me  divine  when  I  treat  her  like  an 
infant. 

"  Is  it  weakness  or  strength  that  has  kept  me 
what  the  world  would  call  true  to  Nell  ?  Is  a  man 
necessarily  a  villain  because  love  dies  out  of  his 
heart,  or  has  his  reason  some  right  to  think  the 
affair  over  and  show  him  where  he  stands  ? 

"  Yes,  Nell  after  all  gets  the  worse  of  the  bar- 
gain. She  will  have  for  a  husband  a  man  who  is 
evidently  incapable  of  a  lasting  affection  for  any- 
body. That,  I  suppose,  means  that  I  find  myself 
the  only  really  interesting  person  I  know.  Yet,  I 
think,  Richard,  you  would  at  times  rather  be  some- 
body else  —  anybody  almost  would  do. 

"  It  is  a  little  humiliating  to  remember  that  I 
have  been  lying  to  Angus  for  the  last  month  or 
two  —  I,  who  always  thought  I  had  such  a  noble 
admiration  for  the  truth.  I  did  it  very  easily  too, 
so  I  suppose  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  I  really 
am  a  very  poor  sort  of  creature.  I  wonder  if  it 
was  for  Mary's  sake  I  lied,  or  merely  because  it 
would  have  been  too  troublesome  to  speak  the 
truth  ?  Except  by  fits  and  starts  I  have  ceased 
apparently  to  be  interested  in  anything.  The  only 
thing  nowadays  that  rouses  my  indignation  is  the 

285 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

attempt  on  anyone's  part  to  draw  me  into  an  argu- 
ment on  any  subject  under  the  sun.     Here  is  this 
Irish  question ;  I  can  pump  up  an  article  in  three 
paragraphs  on  it,  but  I  don't  really  seem  to  care 
whether  it  is  ever  settled  or  not.     Should  we  have 
a  republic  ?     I  don't  mind ;  it  is  all  the  same  to 
me :  but  don't  give  me  the  casting  vote.     Is  Glad- 
stone a  god?    is  Gladstone    the    devil"?      They 
say  he   is  one  or  other,  and  I  am  content  to  let 
them  fight  it  out.    How  long  is  it  since  I  gave  a 
thought  to  religion?     What  am  I?     There  are 
men  who  come  into  this  room  and  announce  that 
they  are  agnostics,  as  if  that  were  a  new  profession. 
Am  I  an  agnostic  ?     I  think  not ;  and  if  I  was  I 
would  keep  it  to  myself     My  soul  does  not  trouble 
me  at  all,  except  for  five  minutes  or  so  now  and 
again.     On  the  whole  I  seem  to  be  indifferent  as 
to  whether  I  have  one,  or  what  is  to  become  of  It." 
Dick  rose  and  paced  the  room,  until  his  face 
gave  the   lie  to  everything  he  had  told  himself 
His  lips  quivered  and  his  whole  body  shook.     He 
stood  in  an  agony  against  the  mantelpiece  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  and  emotions  had  possession  of 
him  compared  with  which  the  emotions  of  any 
other   person    described    in    this    book   were  but 
children's  fancies.     By  and  by  he  became  calm, 
and  began  to  undress.     Suddenly  he  remembered 
something.     He  rummaged   for  his  keys  in  the 
pocket  of  the  coat  he  had  cast  off,  and,  opening  his 

286 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF   TOGETHER 

desk,  wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper  that  he  took  from  it, 
'•'■Scalping  Knife^  Man  Frightened  to  Get  Married 
(humorous)  I " 

"  My  God !  '*  he  groaned,  "  I  would  write  an 
article,  I  think,  on  my  mother's  coffin." 


287 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE   AUDACITY    OF  ROB    ANGUS 

Colonel  Abinger  had  allowed  the  other  sports- 
men to  wander  away  from  him,  and  now  lay  on  his 
back  on  Ben  Shee,  occasionally  raking  the  glen  of 
Ouharity  through  a  field-glass.  It  was  a  purple 
world  he  saw  under  a  sky  of  grey  and  blue  ;  with  a 
white  thread  that  was  the  dusty  road  twisting  round 
a  heavy  sweep  of  mountain-side,  and  a  broken 
thread  of  silver  that  was  the  Quharity  straggling 
back  and  forward  in  the  valley  like  a  stream  re- 
luctant to  be  gone.  To  the  naked  eye  they  were 
bare  black  peaks  that  overlooked  the  glen  from 
every  side  but  the  south.  It  was  not  the  mountains, 
however,  but  the  road  that  interested  the  colonel. 
By  and  by  he  was  sitting  up  frowning,  for  this  is 
what  he  saw. 

From  the  clump  of  trees  to  the  north  that  keeps 
Glen  Quharity  Lodge  warm  in  winter,  a  man  and 
a  lady  emerged  on  horseback.  They  had  not  ad- 
vanced a  hundred  yards,  when  the  male  rider 
turned  back  as  if  for  something  he  had  forgotten. 
The  lady  rode  forward  alone. 

288 


THE   AUDACITY   OF   ROB   ANGUS 

A  pedestrian  came  into  sight  about  the  same  time, 
a  mile  to  the  south  of  the  colonel.  The  field-glass 
lost  him  a  dozen  times,  but  he  was  approaching 
rapidly,  and  he  and  the  rider  must  soon  meet. 

The  nearest  habitation  to  Colonel  Abinger  was 
the  school-house,  which  was  some  four  hundred 
yards  distant.  It  stands  on  the  other  side  of  the 
white  road,  and  is  approached  by  a  straight  path 
down  which  heavy  carts  can  jolt  in  the  summer 
months.  Every  time  the  old  dominie  goes  up  and 
down  this  path,  his  boots  take  part  of  it  along  with 
them.  There  is  a  stone  in  his  house,  close  to  the 
door,  which  is  chipped  and  scarred  owing  to  his 
habit  of  kicking  it  to  get  the  mud  off  his  boots 
before  he  goes  inside.  The  dominie  was  at  present 
sitting  listlessly  on  the  dyke  that  accompanies  this 
path  to  the  high  road.  ^ 

The  colonel  was  taking  no  interest  in  the  pe- 
destrian as  yet,  but  he  sighed  as  he  watched  the 
lady  ride  slowly  forward.  Where  the  road  had 
broken  through  a  bump  in  the  valley  her  lithe 
form  in  green  stood  out  as  sharply  as  a  silhouette 
against  the  high  ragged  bank  of  white  earth.  The 
colonel  had  recognized  his  daughter,  and  his  face 
was  troubled. 

During  all  the  time  they  had  been  at  the  Lodge 
he  had  never  mentioned  Rob  Angus's  name  to 
Mary,  chiefly  because  she  had  not  given  him  a 
chance  to  lose  his  temper.     She  had  been  more 

289 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

demonstrative  in  her  love  for  her  father  than  of 
old,  and  had  anticipated  his  wants  in  a  way  that 
gratified  him  at  the  moment  but  disturbed  him 
afterwards.  In  his  presence  she  seemed  quite  gaily- 
happy,  but  he  had  noticed  that  she  liked  to  slip 
away  on  to  the  hill-side  by  herself,  and  sit  there 
alone  for  hours  at  a  time.  Sir  Clement  Dowton 
was  still  at  the  Lodge,  but  the  colonel  was  despon- 
dent. He  knew  very  well  that,  without  his  consent, 
Mary  would  never  give  her  hand  to  any  man,  but 
he  was  equally  aware  that  there  his  power  ended. 
Where  she  got  her  notions  he  did  not  know,  but 
since  she  became  his  housekeeper  she  had  im- 
pressed the  colonel  curiously.  He  was  always 
finding  himself  taking  for  granted  her  purity  to 
be  something  so  fine  that  it  behoved  him  to  be 
careful.  Mary  affected  other  people  in  the  same 
way.  They  came  to  know  that  she  was  a  very 
rare  person,  and  so  in  her  company  they  became 
almost  fine  persons  themselves.  Thus  the  natural 
goodness  of  mankind  asserted  itself  Of  late  the 
colonel  had  felt  Mary's  presence  more  than  ever ; 
he  believed  in  her  so  much  (often  to  his  annoyance) 
that  she  was  a  religion  to  him. 

While  Colonel  Abinger  sat  in  the  heather,  per- 
turbed in  mind,  and  trying  to  persuade  himself 
that  it  was  Mary's  fault,  the  pedestrian  drew  near 
rapidly.  Evidently  he  and  the  rider  would  meet 
near  the  school-house,  and  before  the  male  rider, 

290 


THE   AUDACITY   OF   ROB   ANGUS 

who  had  again  emerged  from  the  clump  of  trees, 
could  make  up  on  his  companion. 

The  dominie,  who  did  not  have  such  a  slice  of 
the  outer  world  as  this  every  day,  came  to  the  end 
of  his  path  to  have  a  look  at  the  persons  who  were 
Rearing  him  from  opposite  directions.  He  saw 
that  the  pedestrian  wore  an  elegant  silk  hat  and 
black  coat,  such  as  were  not  to  be  got  in  these 
parts.  Only  the  delve  with  which  he  walked  sug- 
gested a  man  from  Thrums. 

The  pedestrian  made  a  remark  about  the  weather 
as  he  hurried  past  the  dominie.  He  was  now  so 
near  the  colonel  that  his  face  could  be  distinctly 
seen  through  the  field-glass.  The  colonel  winced, 
and  turned  white  and  red.  Then  the  field-glass 
jumped  quickly  to  the  horsewoman.  The  pedes- 
trian started  as  he  came  suddenly  in  sight  of  her, 
and  at  the  same  moment  her  face  lit  up  with  joy. 
The  colonel  saw  it  and  felt  a  pain  at  his  heart. 
The  glass  shook  in  his  hand,  thus  bringing  the 
dominie  accidentally  into  view. 

The  dominie  was  now  worth  watching.  No 
sooner  had  the  pedestrian  passed  him  than  the  old 
man  crouched  so  as  not  to  seem  noticeable,  and 
ran  after  him.  When  he  was  within  ten  yards  ot 
his  quarry  he  came  to  rest,  and  the  field-glass  told 
that  he  was  gaping.  Then  the  dominie  turned 
round  and  hurried  back  to  the  school-house,  mut- 
tering as  he  ran  : 

291 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  It's  Rob  Angus  come  home  in  a  lum  hat,  and 
that's  one  o'  the  leddies  frae  the  Lodge.  I  maun 
awa  to  Thrums  wi'  this.  Rob  Angus,  Robbie 
Angus,  michty,  what  a  toon  there'll  be  aboot 
this  I " 

Rob  walked  up  to  Mary  Abinger,  feeling  that 
to  bid  her  good  afternoon  was  like  saying  "  Thank 
you  "  in  a  church  when  the  organ  stops.  He  felt 
himself  a  saw-miller  again. 

The  finest  thing  in  the  world  is  that  a  woman 
can  pass  through  anything,  and  remain  pure. 
Mary  had  never  been  put  to  the  test,  but  she  could 
have  stood  it.  Her  soul  spoke  in  her  face,  and  as 
Rob  looked  at  her  the  sound  of  his  own  voice 
seemed  a  profanation.  Yet  Mary  was  not  all  soul. 
She  understood,  for  instance,  why  Rob  stammered 
so  much  as  he  took  her  hand,  and  she  was  glad 
that  she  had  on  her  green  habit  instead  of  the 
black  one. 

Sir  Clement  Dowton  rode  forward  smartly  to 
make  up  on  Miss  Abinger,  and  saw  her  a  hundred 
yards  before  him  from  the  top  of  a  bump  which 
the  road  climbs.  She  was  leaning  forward  in  her 
saddle  talking  to  a  man  whom  he  recognized  at 
once.  The  baronet's  first  thought  was  to  ride  on, 
but  he  drew  rein. 

"  I  have  had  my  chance  and  failed,"  he  said  to 
himself,  grimly.    "  Why  should  not  he  have  his  ?  " 

With  a  last  look  at  the  woman  he  loved,  Sir 

292 


THE   AUDACITY   OF   ROB   ANGUS 

Clement  turned  his  horse,  and  so  rode  out  of  Mary 
Abinger's  life.     She  had  not  even  seen  him. 

"  Papa  has  been  out  shooting,"  she  said  to  Rob, 
who  was  trying  to  begin,  "  and  I  am  on  my  way 
to  meet  him.     Sir  Clement  Dowton  is  with  me." 

She  turned  her  head  to  look  for  the  baronet,  and 
Rob,  who  had  been  aimlessly  putting  his  fingers 
through  her  horse's  mane,  started  at  the  mention 
of  Sir  Clement's  name. 

"  Miss  Abinger,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  here  to 
ask  you  one  question.  I  have  no  right  to  put  it, 
but  Sir  Clement,  he  —  " 

"  If  you  want  to  see  him,"  said  Mary,  "  you  have 
just  come  in  time,  I  believe  he  is  starting  for  a 
tour  of  the  world  in  a  week  or  so." 

Rob  drew  a  heavy  breath,  and  from  that  mo- 
ment he  liked  Dowton.  But  he  had  himself  to 
think  of  at  present.  He  remembered  that  he  had 
another  question  to  ask  Miss  Abinger. 

"  It  is  a  very  long  time  since  I  saw  you,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  sitting  straight  in  her  saddle, 
"  you  never  came  to  the  houseboat  those  last 
weeks.     I  suppose  you  were  too  busy." 

"  That  was  not  what  Kept  me  away,"  Rob  said. 
"  You  know  it  was  not." 

Mary  looked  behind  her  again. 

"  There  was  nothing  else,"  she  said ;  "  I  cannot 
understand  what  is  detaining  Sir  Clement." 

293 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  I  thought  —  "  Rob  began. 

"You  should  not,"  said  Mary,  looking  at  the 
school-house. 

"But  your  brother — "  Rob  was  saying,  when 
he  paused,  not  wanting  to  incriminate  Dick. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mary,  whose  intellect  was 
very  clear  to-day.  She  knew  why  Rob  stopped 
short,  and  there  was  a  soft  look  in  her  eyes  as  they 
were  turned  upon  him. 

"Your  brother  advised  me  to  come  north,"  Rob 
said,  but  Mary  did  not  answer. 

"  I  would  not  have  done  so,"  he  continued,  "  if 
I  had  known  that  you  knew  why  I  stayed  away 
from  the  houseboat." 

"  I  think  I  must  ride  on,"  Mary  said. 

"  No,"  said  Rob,  in  a  voice  that  put  it  out  of  the 
question.  So  Mary  must  have  thought,  for  she 
remained  there.  "  You  thought  it  better,"  he  went 
on,  huskily,  "  that,  whatever  the  cause,  I  should  not 
see  you  again." 

Mary  was  bending  her  riding-whip  into  a  bow. 

"  Did  you  not  ?  "  cried  Rob,  a  little  fiercely. 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  why  did  you  do  it  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  didn't  do  anything,"  said  Mary. 

"  In  all  London,"  said  Rob,  speaking  at  a  ven- 
ture, "  there  has  not  been  one  person  for  the  last 
two  months  so  miserable  as  myself." 

Mary's  eyes  wandered  from  Rob's  face  far  over 

294 


THE   AUDACITY   OF   ROB  ANGUS 

the  heather.  There  might  be  tears  in  her  eyes  at 
any  moment.     The  colonel  was  looking. 

"  That  stream,"  said  Rob,  with  a  mighty  effort, 
pointing  to  the  distant  Whunny,  "twists  round 
the  hill  on  which  we  are  now  standing,  and  runs 
through  Thrums.  It  turns  the  wheel  of  a  saw- 
mill there,  and  in  that  saw-mill  I  was  born  and 
worked  with  my  father  for  the  great  part  of  my 
life." 

"I  have  seen  it,"  said  Mary,  with  her  head 
turned  away.     "  I  have  been  in  it." 

"  It  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill  that  my 
sister's  child  was  found  dead.  Had  she  lived  I 
might  never  have  seen  you." 

"  One  of  the  gamekeepers,"  said  Mary,  "  showed 
me  the  place  where  you  found  her  with  her  foot  in 
the  water." 

"  I  have  driven  a  cart  through  this  glen  a  hun- 
dred times,"  continued  Rob,  doggedly.  "  You  see 
that  wooden  shed  at  the  school-house ;  it  was  my 
father  and  I  who  put  it  up.  It  seems  but  yester- 
day since  I  carted  the  boards  from  Thrums." 

"  The  dear  boards,"  murmured  Mary. 

"  Many  a  day  my  mother  has  walked  from  the 
saw-mill  into  this  glen  with  my  dinner  in  a  basket." 

"  Good  mother,"  said  Mary. 

"Now,"  said  Rob,  "now,  when  I  come  back 
here  and  see  you,  I  remember  what  I  am.  I  have 
lived  for  you  from  the  moment  I  saw  you,  but 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

however  hard  I  might  toil  for  you,  there  must  al- 
ways be  a  difference  between  us." 

He  was  standing  on  the  high  bank,  and  their 
faces  were  very  close.     Mary  shuddered. 

"  I  only  frighten  you,"  cried  Rob. 

Mary  raised  her  head,  and,  though  her  face  was 
wet,  she  smiled.  Her  hand  went  out  to  him,  but 
she  noticed  it  and  drew  it  back.  Rob  saw  it  too, 
but  did  not  seek  to  take  it.  They  were  looking  at 
each  other  bravely.  His  eyes  proposed  to  her, 
while  he  could  not  say  a  word,  and  hers  accepted 
him.     On  the  hills  men  were  shooting  birds. 

Rob  knew  that  Mary  loved  him.  An  awe  fell 
upon  him.  "  What  am  I  ?  "  he  cried,  and  Mary 
put  her  hand  in  his.  "  Don't,  dear,"  she  said,  as 
his  face  sank  on  it;  and  he  raised  his  head  and 
could  not  speak. 

The  colonel  sighed,  and  his  cheeks  were  red. 
His  head  sank  upon  his  hands.  He  was  young 
again,  and  walking  down  an  endless  lane  of  green 
with  a  maiden  by  his  side,  and  her  hand  was  in  his. 
They  sat  down  by  the  side  of  a  running  stream. 
Her  fair  head  lay  on  his  shoulder,  and  she  was  his 
wife.  The  colonel's  lips  moved  as  if  he  were  saying 
to  himself  words  of  love,  and  his  arms  went  out  to 
her  who  had  been  dead  this  many  a  year,  and  a  tear, 
perhaps  the  last  he  ever  shed,  ran  down  his  cheek. 
"  I  should  not,"  Mary  said  at  last,  "  have  let  you 
talk  to  me  like  this." 

296 


V 


THE   AUDACITY   OF   ROB   ANGUS 

Rob  looked  up  with  sudden  misgiving. 

"  Why  not  *?  "  he  cried. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "  will  never  consent,  and  I  — 
I  knew  that ;  I  have  known  it  all  along." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  up  now,"  Rob  said, 
passionately,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  would  run 
away  with  her  at  that  moment. 

"  I  had  no  right  to  listen  to  you,"  said  Mary. 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  do  so,  but  I  —  I  "  —  her  voice 
sank  into  a  whisper  —  "I  wanted   to  know  — " 

"  To  know  that  I  loved  you  I  Ah,  you  have 
known  all  along." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  "  but  I  wanted  —  I  wanted 
to  hear  you  say  so  yourself." 

Rob's  arms  went  over  her  like  a  hoop. 

"  Rob,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "  you  must  go  away, 
and  never  see  me  any  more." 

"  I  won't,"  cried  Rob ;  "  you  are  to  be  my  wife. 
He  shall  not  part  us." 

"  It  can  never  be,"  said  Mary. 

"  I  shall  see  him  —  I  shall  compel  him  to  con- 
sent." 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

"  You  don't  want  to  marry  me,"  Rob  said, 
fiercely,  drawing  back  from  her.  "  You  do  not 
care  for  me.     What  made  you  say  you  did  *?  " 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  back  now,"  Mary  said,  and 
the  softness  of  her  voice  contrasted  strangely  with 
the  passion  in  his. 

297 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  I  shall  go  with  you,"  Rob  answered,  "  and  see 
your  flither." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mary ;  "  we  must  say  good-bye 
here,  now." 

Rob  turned  on  her  with  all  the  dourness  of  the 
Anguses  in  him. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  and  left  her.  Mary  put 
her  hand  to  her  heart,  but  he  was  already  turning 
back. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  *'  do  vou  not  see  that  it  is  so 
much  harder  to  me  than  to  you  ?  " 

"  Mary,  my  beloved,"  Rob  cried.  She  swayed 
in  her  saddle,  and  if  he  had  not  been  there  to  catch 
her  she  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground. 

Rob  heard  a  footstep  at  his  side,  and,  looking 
up,  saw  Colonel  Abinger.  The  old  man's  face 
was  white,  but  the  fe  was  a  soft  look  in  his  eye,  and 
he  stooped  to  tak(.  Mary  to  his  breast. 

"No,"  Rob  said,  with  his  teeth  close,  "you 
can't  have  her.     "  She's  mine." 

"  Yes,"  the  colonel  said,  sadly ;  "  she's  yours." 


298 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE  VERDICT   OF  THRUMS 

On  a  mild  Saturday  evening  in  the  following  May, 
Sandersy  Riach,  telegraph  boy,  emerged  from  the 
Thrums  post-ofBce,  and,  holding  his  head  high, 
strutted  off  towards  the  Tenements.  He  had  on 
his  uniform,  and  several  other  boys  flung  gutters 
at  it,  to  show  that  they  were  as  good  as  he  was. 

"  Wha's  deid,  Sandersy  ?  "  housewives  flung 
open  their  windows  to  ask. 

"  It's  no  a  death,"  Sandersy  replied.  "  Na,  na, 
far  frae  that.  I  daurna  tell  ye  what  it  is,  because 
it  's  agin'  the  regalations,  but  it'll  cause  a  michty 
wy  doin'  in  Thrums  this  nicht." 

"Juist  whisper  what  it's  aboot,  Sandersy,  my 
laddie." 

"  It  canna  be  done,  Easie ;  na,  na.  But  them 
'at  wants  to  hear  the  noos,  follow  me  to  Tammas 
Haggart's." 

Off  Sandersy  went,  with  some  women  and  a 
dozen  children  at  his  heels,  but  he  did  not  find 
Tammas  in. 

"  I  winna  hae't  lyin'  aboot  here,"  Chirsty,  the 

299 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

wife  of  Tammas,  said,  eyeing  the  telegram  as  some- 
thing that  might  go  off  at  any  moment;  "  ye'll 
better  tak'  it  on  to  'imsel.  He's  takkin'  a  dander 
through  the  buryin'  ground  wi'  Snecky  Hobart." 

Sandersy  marched  through  the  east  town  end  at 
the  head  of  his  following,  and  climbed  the  steep, 
straight  brae  that  leads  to  the  cemetery.  Tncre 
he  came  upon  the  stone-breaker  and  the  bellman 
strolling  from  grave  to  grave.  Sllva  McOuhatty 
and  Sam'l  Todd  were  also  in  the  burying  ground 
for  pleasure,  and  they  hobbled  tov*'ard  Tammiro 
when  they  saw  the  telegram  in  his  hand, 

" '  Thomas  Haggart,'  the  stone-breaker  mur- 
mured, reading  out  his  own  name  on  the  envelope, 
"  '  Tenements,  Thrums.' "  Then  he  stared  thought- 
fully at  his  neighbours  to  see  whether  that  could 
be  looked  upon  as  news.    It  was  his  first  telegram. 

"  Ay,  ay,  deary  me,"  said  Silva,  mournfully. 

"  She's  no  very  expliceet,  do  ye  think  ?  "  asked 
Sam'l  Todd. 

Snecky  Hobart,  however,  as  an  official  himself, 
had  a  general  notion  of  how  affairs  of  state  are 
conducted. 

■•'  Rip  her  open,  Tammas,"  he  suggested.  "  That's 
but  the  shell,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"  Does  she  open  *?  "  asked  Tammas,  with  a  grin. 

He  opened  the  telegram  gingerly,  and  sat  down 
on  a  prostrate  tombstone  to  consider  it.  Snecky's 
fingers  tingled  to  get  at  it. 

300 


THE   VERDICT   OF   THRUMS 

"  It  begins  In  the  same  wy,"  the  stone-breaker 
said,  deliberately;  "'Thomas  Haggart,  Tene- 
ments, Thrums.' " 

"  Ay,  ay,  deary  me,"  repeated  Silva. 

"That  means  it's  toyou,"Sneckysaid  toTammas. 

"  Next,"  continued  Tammas,  "  comes  '  Elizabeth 
Haggart,  loi,  Lower  Fish  Street,  Whitechapel, 
London.' " 

"  She's  a'  names  thegether,"  muttered  Sam'l 
Todd,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance. 

"  She's  a'  richt,"  said  Snecky,  nodding  to  Tam- 
mas to  proceed.  "  Elizabeth  Haggart  —  that's  wha 
the  telegram  comes  frae." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  stone-breaker,  doubtfully, 
"  but  I  ken  no  Elizabeth  Haggart." 

"Hoots,"  said  Snecky;  "it's  your  ain  dochter 
Lisbeth." 

"  Keeps  us  a',"  said  Tammas,  "  so  it  is.  I  didna 
unerstan'  at  first;  ye  see  we  aye  called  her  Leeby. 
Ay,  an'  that's  whaur  she  bides  in  London  too." 

"  Lads,  lads,"  said  Silva,  "  an'  is  Leeby  gone  ? 
Ay,  ay,  we  all  fade  as  a  leaf;  so  we  do." 

"What!"  cried  Tammas,  his  hand  beginning 
to  shake. 

"Havers,"  said  Snecky,  "ye  hinna  come  to  the 
telegram  proper  yet,  Tammas.  What  mair  does 
it  say?" 

The  stone-breaker  conned  over  the  words,  and 
by  and  by  his  face  wrinkled  with  excitement.    He 

301 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

puffed  his  cheeks,  and  then  let  the  air  rush  through 
his  mouth  like  an  escape  of  gas. 

"  It's  Rob  Angus,"  he  blurted  out. 

"Man,  man,"  said  Silva,  "an'  him  lookit  sae 
strong  an'  snod  when  he  was  here  i'  the  back-end  o' 
last  year." 

"  He's  no  deid,"  cried  Tammas,  "  he's  mairit. 
Listen,  lads,  '  The  thing  is  true  Rob  Augus  has 
married  the  colonel's  daughter  at  a  castle  Rob 
Angus  has  married  the  colonel.' " 

"  Losh  me  !  "  said  Sam'l,  "  I  never  believed  he 
would  manage't." 

"  Ay,  but  she  reads  queer,"  said  Tammas.  "First 
she  says  Rob's  mairit  the  dochter,  an'  neist  'at  he's 
mairit  the  colonel." 

"  Twa  o'  them  I  "  cried  Silva,  who  was  now  in  a 
state  to  believe  anything. 

Snecky  seized  the  telegram,  and  thought  it  over. 

"  I  see  what  Leeby's  done,"  he  said,  admir- 
ingly. "  Ye're  restreected  to  twenty  words  in  a 
telegram,  an'  Leeby  found  she  had  said  a'  she  had 
to  say  in  fourteen  words,  so  she's  repeated  hersel 
to  get  her  full  shilling's  worth." 

"  Ye've  hit  it,  Snecky,"  said  Tammas.  "  It's  juist 
what  Leeby  would  do.  She  was  aye  a  michty 
thrifty,  shrewd  crittur." 

"  A  shilling's  an  awfu'siller  to  fling  awa,  though," 
said  Sam'l. 

"  It's  weel  spent  in  this  case,"  retorted  Tammas, 

302 


THE   VERDICT   OF   THRUMS 

sticking  up  for  his  own ;  "  there  hasna  been  sic  a 
startler  in  Thrums  since  the  EngUsh  kirk  steeple 
fell." 

"  Ye  can  see  Angus's  saw-mill  frae  here,"  ex- 
claimed Silva,  implying  that  this  made  the  affair 
more  wonderful  than  ever. 

"  So  ye  can,"  said  Snecky,  gazing  at  it  as  if  it 
were  some  curiosity  that  had  been  introduced  into 
Thrums  in  the  night-time. 

"  To  think,"  muttered  Tammas,  "  'at  the  saw- 
miller  doon  there  should  be  mairit  in  a  castle.  It's 
beyond  all.     Oh,  it's  beyond,  it's  beyond." 

"  Sal,  though,"  said  Sam'l,  suspiciously,  "  I  wud 
like  a  sicht  o'  the  castle.  I  mind  o'  readin'  in  a 
booky  'at  every  Englishman's  hoose  is  his  castle,  so 
I'm  thinkin'  castle's  but  a  name  in  the  sooth  for  an 
ord'nar  hoose." 

"  Weel  a  wat,  ye  never  can  trust  thae  foreigners," 
said  Silva;  "it's  weel  beknown  'at  English  is  an 
awful  pertentious  langitch  too.  They  slither  ower 
their  words  in  a  hurried  wy  'at  I  canna  say  I  like ; 
no,  I  canna  say  I  like  it." 

"  Will  Leeby  hae  seen  the  castle  ?  "  asked  Sam'l. 

"  Na,"  said  Tammas ;  "  it's  a  lang  wy  frae 
London;  she'll  juist  hae  heard  o'  the  mairitch." 

"  It'll  hae  made  a  commotion  in  London,  I  dinna 
doot,"  said  Snecky,  "but,  lads,  it  proves  as  the 
colonel  man  stuck  to  Rob." 

'  Ay,  I  hardly  expected  it." 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

"  Ay,  ay,  Snecky,  ye're  richt.  Rob'Il  hae 
manage't  him.  Weel,  I  will  say  this  for  Rob 
Angus,  he  was  a  crittur  'at  was  terrible  fond  o' 
gettin'  his  ain  wy," 

"The  leddy  had  smoothed  the  thing  ower  wi' 
her  faither,"  said  Tammas,  who  was  notorious  for 
his  knowledge  of  women ;  "  ay,  an'  there  was  a 
brither,  ye  mind  ?  Ane  o'  the  servants  up  at  the 
Lodge  said  to  Kitty  Wobster  'at  they  were  to 
be  mairit  the  same  day,  so  I've  nae  doot  they  were." 

"Ay,"  said  Sam'l,  pricking  up  his  ears,  "an' 
wha  was  the  brither  gettin'  *?  " 

"  Weel,  it  was  juist  gossip,  ye  understan'.  But 
I  heard  tell  'at  the  leddy  had  a  tremendous  tocher, 
an'  'at  she  was  called  Meredith." 

"  Meredith  I "  exclaimed  Silva  McOuhatty, 
"  what  queer  names  some  o'  thae  English  fowk 
has ;  ay,  I  prefer  the  ord'nar  names  mysel." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Snecky,  looking  curiously  at 
the  others,  "  what  Rob  has  in  the  wy  o'  wages  *?  " 

"  That's  been  discuss't  in  every  hoose  in 
Thrums,"  said  Sam'l,  "  but  there's  no  doubt  it's 
high,  for  it's  a  salary ;  ay,  it's  no  wages." 

"  I  dinna  ken  what  Rob  has,"  Silva  said,  "  but 
some  o'  thae  writers  makes  awfu'  sums.  There's 
the  yeditor  o'  the  ^ilUedrum  Weekly  Herald  noo.  I 
canna  tell  his  income,  but  I  have  it  frae  Dite 
Deuchars,  wha  kens,  'at  he  pays  twa-an'-twenty 
pound  o'  rent  for's  hoose." 


THE   VERDICT   OF   THRUMS 

"  Ay,  but  Rob's  no  a  yeditor,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  Ye're  far  below  the  mark  wi'  Rob's  salary," 
said  Tammas.  "  My  ain  opeenion  is  'at  he  has  a 
great  hoose  in  London  by  this  time,  wi'  twa  or  three 
servants,  an'  a  lad  in  knickerbuckers  to  stan'  ahent 
his  chair  and  reach  ower  him  to  cut  the  roast  beef." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  said  Snecky,  who  had  heard  of 
such  things,  "  but  if  it  is  it'll  irritate  Rob  michty 
no  to  get  cuttin'  the  roast  'imsel.  Thae  Anguses 
aye  like't  to  do  a'thing  for  themsels." 

"There's  the  poseetion  to  think  o',"  said  Tammas. 

"  Thrums'U  be  a  busy  toon  this  nicht,"  said 
Sam'l,  "  when  it  hears  the  noos.  Ay,  I  maun  awa' 
an'  tell  the  wife." 

Having  said  this,  Sam'l  sat  down  on  the  tomb- 
stone. 

"  It'll  send  mair  laddies  on  to  the  papers  oot  o' 
Thrums,"  said  Tammas.  "  There's  three  awa'  to 
the  printin'  trade  since  Rob  was  here,  an'  Susie 
Byars  is  to  send  little  Joey  to  the  business  as  sune 
as  he's  auld  eneuch." 

"  Joey'll  do  weel  in  the  noospaper  line,"  said 
Silva;  "he  writes  a  better  han'  than  Rob  Angus 
aheady." 

"  Weel,  weel,  that's  the  main  thing,  lads." 

Sam'l  moved  off  slowly  to  take  the  news  mto 
the  east  town  ^nd. 

"  It's  to  Rob's  creedit,"  said  Tammas  to  the  two 
men  remaining,  "  'at  he  was  na  at  all  prood  when  he 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

came  back.  Ay,  he  called  on  me  very  frank  like, 
as  ye'U  mind,  an'  I  wasna  in,  so  Chirsty  dusts  a 
chair  for  'im,  and  comes  to  look  for  me.  Lads,  I 
was  fair  ashamed  to  see  'at  in  her  fluster  she'd  gien 
him  a  common  chaii,  when  there  was  hair-bottomed 
anes  in  the  other  room.  Ye  may  be  sure  I  sent 
hei  for  a  better  chair,  an'  got  him  to  change, 
though  he  was  sort  o'  mad  like  at  havin'  to  shift. 
That  was  his  ind'pendence  again." 

"  I  was  aye  callin'  him  Rob,"  said  Snecky,  "  for- 
gettin'  what  a  grand  man  he  was  noo,  an',  of 
coorse,  I  corrected  mysel,  and  said  Mr.  Angus. 
Weel,  when  I'd  dune  that  mebbe  a  dozen  times  he 
was  fair  stampin's  feet  wi'  rage,  as  ye  micht  say. 
Ay,  there  was  a  want  o'  patience  aboot  Rob 
Angus." 

"  He  slippit  a  gold  sovereign  into  my  hand," 
said  Silva,  "  but,  losh,  he  wudna  lat  me  thank  'im. 
'  Hold  yer  tongue,'  he  says,  or  words  to  that  efFec, 
when  I  insistit  on't." 

At  the  foot  of  the  burying-ground  road  Sam'l 
Todd  could  be  seen  laying  it  off  about  Rob  to  a 
little  crowd  of  men  and  women.  Snecky  looked 
at  them  till  he  could  look  no  longer. 

"  I  maun  awa  wi'  the  noos  to  the  wast  toon 
end,"  he  said,  and  by  and  by  he  went,  climbing 
the  dyke  for  a  short  cut. 

"  Weel,  weel,  Rob  Angus  is  mairit,"  said  Silva 
to  Tammas. 

306 


THE   VERDICT   OF   THRUMS 

'•  So  he  is,  Silva,"  said  the  stone-breaker. 

"  It's  an  experiment,"  said  Silva. 

"  Ye  may  say  so,  but  Rob  was  aye  venturesome." 

"  Ye  saw  the  leddy,  Tammas  *?  " 

"Ay,  man,  I  did  mair  than  that.  She  spoke  to 
me,  an'  speired  a  lot  aboot  the  wy  Rob  took  on 
when  little  Davy  was  fund  deid.  He  was  fond  o' 
his  fowk,  Rob,  michty  fond." 

"  What  was  your  opeenion  o'  her  then,  Tam- 
mas ?  " 

"  Weel,  Silva,  to  tell  the  truth  I  was  oncommon 
favourably  impreesed.  She  shook  hands  wi'  me, 
man,  an'  she  had  sic  a  saft  voice  an'  sic  a  bonny 
face  I  was  a  kind  o'  carried  awa ;  yes,  I  was  so," 

"  Ay,  ye  say  that,  Tammas.  Weel,  I  think  I'll 
be  movin'.  They'll  be  keen  to  hear  aboot  this  in 
the  square." 

"  I  said  to  her,"  continued  Tammas,  peering 
through  his  half-closed  eyes  at  Silva,  "  'at  Rob  was 
a  lucky  crittur  to  get  sic  a  bonny  wife." 

"  Ye  did ! "  cried  Silva.  "  An'  hoo  did  she  tak' 
that^" 

"  Ou,"  said  Tammas,  complacently,  "  she  took  it 
weel." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Silva,  now  a  dozen  yards  away, 
"  'at  Rob  never  sent  ony  o'  the  papers  he  writes  to 
Thrums  juist  to  lat's  see  them." 

"  He  sent  a  heap,"  said  Tammas,  "  to  the  min- 
ister, meanin'  them  to  be  passed  roond,  but  Mr. 


WHEN   A   MAN'S   SINGLE 

Dishart  didna  juist  think  they  were  quite  the  thing, 
ye  unerstan',  so  he  keeps  them  lockit  up  in  a 
press." 

"They  say  in  the  toon,"  said  Silva,  "'at  Rob 
would  never  hae  got  on  sae  weel  if  Mr,  Dishart 
hadna  helpit  him.  Do  you  think  there's  onything 
in  that?" 

Tammas  was  sunk  in  reverie,  and  Silva  at  last 
departed.  He  was  out  of  sight  by  the  time  the 
stone-breaker  came  to. 

"  I  spoke  to  the  minister  aboot  it,"  Tammas 
answered,  under  the  impression  that  Silva  was 
still  there,  "  an'  speired  at  him  if  he  had  sent  a  line 
aboot  Rob  to  the  London  yeditors,  but  he  wudna 
say." 

Tammas  moved  his  head  round,  and  saw  that 
he  was  alone. 

"No,"  he  continued,  thoughtfully,  addressing 
the  tombstones,  "  he  would  neither  say  'at  he  did 
nor  'at  he  didna.  He  juist  waved  his  han'  like,  to 
lat's  see  'at  he  was  at  the  bottom  o't,  but  didna 
want  it  to  be  spoken  o'.     Ay,  ay." 

Tammas  hobbled  thoughtfully  down  one  of  the 
steep  burying-ground  walks,  until  he  came  to  a 
piece  of  sward  with  no  tombstone  at  its  head. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  there's  many  an  Angus  lies 
buried  there,  an'  Rob's  the  only  ane  left  noo.  I 
hae  helpit  to  hap  the  earth  ower  five,  ay,  sax  o' 
them.     It's  no  to  be  expeckit,  no,  i'  the  course  o' 

308 


THE   VERDICT   OF   THRUMS 

natur'  it's  no  to  be  expeckit,  'at  I  should  last  oot 
the  seventh  :  no,  but  there's  nae  sayin'.  Ay,  Rob, 
ye  wasna  sae  fu'  o'  speerits  as  I'll  waurant  ye  are 
the  noo,  that  day  ye  buried  Davy.  Losh,  losh  it's 
a  queer  warld." 

"  It's  a  pretty  spot  to  be  buried  in,"  he  muttered, 
after  a  time;  and  then  his  eyes  wandered  to  an- 
other part  of  the  burying-ground. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle,  "  but  I've  a  snod 
bit  cornery  up  there  for  mysel'.     Ou  ay." 


Q 


09 


UC  SOIITHFRN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  381  998 


I 


( 


